di 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


Acknowledgment  is  hereby  made  to 
the  New  York  World,  for  permission 
to  reprint  a  number  of  the  stories 
included  in  this  volume. 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


BY 

KONRAD  BERCOVICI 


BONI    &    LIVERIGHT 
NEW    YORK  1919 


w 

M 


Copyright,  1919, 

BY  BONI  &  LlVBBIGHT,  ING. 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  Amerioa 


TO 
JOHN  O'HARA  COSGRAVE 


85710s 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THERESA  THE  VAMP 3 

THE  TROUBLES  OF  A  PERFECT  TYPE  .  .  13 

How  THE  IBANEZES  LOVE 22 

THE  LITTLE  MAN  OF  TWENTY-EIGHTH 

STREET 31 

THE  NEWLY-RICH  GOLDSTEINS  ....  40 

ALL  IN  ONE  WILD  ROUMANIAN  SONG  .  .  52 

EXPENSIVE  POVERTY 60 

WHY  HER  NAME  is  MARGUERITE  V.  L.  F. 

CLEMENT 68 

LULEIKA,  THE  RlCH  WlDOW 77 

VBECAUSE  COHEN  COULD  NEITHER  READ  NOR 

WRITE 87 

THE  MARRIAGE  BROKER'S  DAUGHTER    .     .  94 
THE  NEW  SECRETARY  OF  THE  PRETZEL- 
PAINTER'S  UNION     .......  107 

THE  GYPSY  BLOOD  THAT  TELLS  ....  116 

WHEN  STARE'S  CAFE  WAS  CLOSED    ...  124 

vii 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


PAGE 

BECAUSE  OF  BOOKKEEPING 134 

THE  STRENGTH  OF  THE  WEAK     ....  146 

SOCIALISTS!  BEWARE  OF  MRS.  ROSENBERG  .  155 

A  CONFLICT  OF  IDEALS 162 

THE  HOLY  HEALER  FROM  OMSK  .     ...  174 

HIRSH  ROTH'S  THEORY 186 

THE  TRAGEDY  OF  AFGHAN'S  LIVING  RUG     .  197 

BABETA'S  DOG 208 

THE  PROFESSOR 224 

THE  PURE  MOTIVE  233 


VUl 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


FACING 
PAGE 


Frontispiece 

When  Ferenczy  entered  the  cafe  there  were 
two  different  camps 8 

Luleika  and  old  Kurguz  walked  in  Washing 
ton  Street  82 

"Little  Father,  your  pulse  is  wonderful  to 
day"      182 


IX 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


THERESA  THE  VAMP 

NEW  YORK  is  an  orchestra  playing  a 
symphony.  If  you  hear  the  part  of  only 
one  instrument — first  violin  or  oboe,  'cello  or 
French  horn — it  is  incongruous.  To  under 
stand  the  symphony  you  must  hear  all  the  in 
struments  playing  together,  each  its  own  part, 
to  the  invisible  baton  of  that  great  conductor, 
Father  Time. 

But  the  symphony  is  heard  only  very  rarely. 
Most  of  the  time  New  York  is  tuning  up. 
Each  voice  is  practising  its  part  of  the  score — 
the  little  solos  for  the  violins  to  please  the  su 
perficial  sentimentalists,  and  the  twenty  bars 
for  the  horn  to  satisfy  the  martial  spirit  in  men. 

3 


DUST:  0F  NEW  YORK 


:  (Jori^i phi  sightseers,  don't  think  you 
know  New  York  because  you  have  sauntered 
through  a  few  streets  and  eaten  hot  tamales  in 
a  Mexican  restaurant,  or  burnt  your  tongue 
with  goulash  in  some  "celebrated  Hungarian 
palace."  Only  to  very  few  privileged  ones  is 
it  given  to  hear  the  symphony — and  they  have 
to  pay  dearly  for  it.  But  it  is  worth  the  price. 

They  called  her  the  Vampire,  or  Vamp  for 
short.  Her  name  was  Theresa,  and  she  was 
born  somewhere  on  Hungarian  soil  in  Tokai, 
where  flows  the  dark  blue  water  of  the  Tisza, 
not  far  from  the  Herpad  Mountains  on  which 
grows  the  grape  for  the  luxurious  Tokai  wine. 

Now,  when  and  why  Theresa  came  to  New 
York  nobody  knew.  But  all  were  glad  she 
was  here  .  .  .  here,  at  a  little  table  in  a  corner 
of  the  "Imperial"  on  Second  Avenue.  When 
one  met  a  friend  on  the  street  and  asked: 
"Anybody  at  the  'Imperial?'  "  and  the  answer 
was  "Nobody  there  to-night,"  it  simply  meant 
that  the  Vamp  was  not  there.  The  other 

4 


THERESA  THE  VAMP 


two  hundred  or  more  guests  did  not  count. 

She  spoke  very  little.  She  smoked  all  the 
time,  and  her  fiery  dark  eyes  hid  behind  the 
thin  smoke  curtain  from  her  cigarette.  Young 
men  had  no  chance  at  her  table.  They  seldom 
came  near  her  at  all.  They  were  afraid  of 
her.  Only  married  men  dared  approach  her, 
relying  on  their  experience  to  extricate  them 
selves  when  in  danger. 

And  yet  there  was  no  danger!  At  some 
hour  after  midnight  Theresa  brushed  the  ashes 
off  her  waist  from  the  "last"  cigarette,  ar 
ranged  her  hair  a  bit,  and  announced  to  the 
company  "I  am  going." 

It  always  was  irrevocable.  A  newcomer  was 
known  by  the  fact  that  he  offered  to  see  her 
home.  The  habitues  would  then  answer  in 
chorus,  "I  can  find  my  way  alone,"  and  laugh 
and  tease  the  unfortunate  who  did  not  know 
that  Theresa  went  home  alone. 

After  Theresa's  departure  her  friends  would 
scatter  to  different  tables  and  take  up  cudgels 
for  this  or  that  or  the  other,  always  with  the 

5 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


conscience  that  on  the  street  the  question  would 
be:  "Anybody  there?"  and  the  answer  would 
be  the  inevitable  "Nobody  there."  So  most  of 
them  would  leave  the  place  soon  after  Theresa 
— dispersing  over  the  city,  each  to  his  home, 
bringing  there  the  secret  emptiness  that  was  in 
him. 

"Ferenczy  is  here,"  a  friend  greeted  me  one 
day. 

"Ferenczy  who?"  I  asked. 

"Ferenczy,  the  great  painter,  man!" 

I  did  not  know  much  about  the  great  Hun 
garian  artist,  but  my  friend  knew,  and  urged 
me  to  come  and  see  him.  I  found  him  at  the 
"Imperial." 

Tall,  thin,  dark,  passionate,  the  picture  of 
the  painter  as  portrayed  in  novels.  He  spoke 
about  art  like  a  true  artist.  Some  of  the  ladies, 
usually  placidly  sipping  their  coffee,  became 
very  self-conscious  as  he  declaimed  a  bit  too 
loudly  about  beauty  of  line  and  harmony  of 
color.  Even  the  two  fighting  musical  critics, 

6 


THERESA  THE  VAMP 


old  Newman  and  Dr.  Feldys,  forgot  the  night 
ly  squabble  over  the  merits  of  modern  music, 
when  Ferenczy  talked. 

In  the  midst  of  all  appeared  Theresa.  She 
went  straight  to  her  table.  From  different 
sections  of  the  cafe  men  rose,  and  after  mak 
ing  their  apologies  to  the  other  guests,  walked 
up  to  where  the  Vamp  was  waiting  for  some 
one  to  help  her  take  off  her  coat. 

Ferenczy  turned  about  to  see  who  caused 
such  a  stir.  A  few  minutes  later  he  was  sit 
ting  opposite  her,  the  two  oblivious  of  every 
body  else.  He  was  her  fellow  countryman, 
was  born  at  the  foot  of  the  same  mountains, 
the  Herpads. 

And  we  were  all  surprised  when  she  did  not 
say  "I  can  find  my  way  alone,"  two  hours  after 
midnight,  and  allowed  Ferenczy  to  see  her 
home. 

When  Ferenczy  entered  the  cafe  the  next 
evening  there  were  two  different  camps.  One 
hated  him  because  he  took  the  Vamp  home,  and 

7 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


one  admired  him  because  he  had  succeeded 
where  everybody  else  had  failed. 

He  went  straight  to  Theresa's  table,  which 
was  usually  vacant  until  she  came,  and  ordered 
something  from  the  astonished  waiter.  They 
had  not  realized  before  how  boisterous  a  mus 
tache  can  be,  and  not  one  guest  felt  comfort 
able  in  his  workaday  garb  facing  the  immacu 
lately  black  and  white  Ferenczy. 

The  other  guests  broke  precedent  that  eve 
ning  and  came  to  sit  at  the  Vamp's  table  before 
she  had  arrived.  Every  time  the  door  opened 
all  the  heads  turned  in  its  direction,  still  main 
taining  or  arguing  about  something.  And  thus 
guests,  perfect  strangers,  felt  the  weight  of 
words  hurled  at  them  as  from  a  cannon's 
mouth. 

And  the  door  was  never  still.  The  Imperial 
was  the  home  of  all  the  disappointed,  disabused 
men  of  the  East  Side ;  men  and  women  from  the 
four  corners  of  the  earth.  Former  poets  who 
studied  dentistry  to  earn  a  living,  and  who  are 
now  completely  swallowed  up  by  their  profes- 

8 


THERESA  THE  VAMP 


sion,  came  nightly,  to  hear  themselves  mock 
the  former  music  composer  who  is  now  a  physi 
cian,  and  over  the  ears  in  real  estate  transac 
tions.  This  physician  once  gave  to  a  patient  a 
prescription  as  follows:  "60  pounds  of  nails, 
fourteen  window  panes,  3x4,  12  pounds  of 
putty  and  80  pounds  of  lime." 

Former  sculptors,  former  painters,  former 
dancers,  former  men,  former  women,  all  gath 
er  in  the  cafe  of  the  might-have-beens,  and  all 
invite  every  newcomer  to  witness  in  them  his 
own  doom.  Some  go  to  concerts  to  hear  music 
which  they  might  have  composed,  others  read 
poetry  which  they  might  have  written,  criticise 
a  play  the  .thought  of  which  had  lingered  in 
their  own  minds  for  years  without  coming  to 
utterance.  Disabused  socialists  now  owning 
factories,  and  great,  great  chemists  now  clerk 
ing  in  some  drug  store  of  the  vicinity,  assemble 
there. 

Theresa  came  that  night.  Ferenczy  helped 
her  with  the  coat,  and  lit  her  cigarette  and  or- 

9 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


dered  her  coffee,  and  they  talked  earnestly  in 
their  mother  tongue  the  rest  of  the  evening. 
One  by  one  the  other  guests  left  the  table  until 
the  two  were  alone.  It  was  after  2  A.  M.  when 
they  left  the  place.  They  were  almost  the  last 
guests.  He  saw  her  home. 

The  following  evening  Theresa's  former 
friends  discussed  Ferenczy.  His  work,  while 
having  a  certain  charm  which  appealed  to  the 
uninitiated,  was  worthless  as  art,  they  decreed. 

He  never  did  anything  worth  while.  He 
was  just  good  enough  for  America;  to  make 
magazine  covers.  And  Andrasky,  the  jour 
nalist,  remembered  that  an  art  critic  in  the 
Budapest  Hirlap  called  Ferenczy  "Munca- 
czy's  Monkey." 

A  few  days  later  one  of  the  Magyar  papers 
had  a  derogatory  article  about  Ferenczy,  in 
which  the  "Budapester"  critic  was  cited. 

The  painter  himself  was  not  seen  at  the  Im 
perial  for  a  few  evenings,  neither  was  Theresa. 
Scouts  went  out  to  find  them.  It  was  incon- 

10 


THERESA  THE  VAMP 


ceivable  that  the  Vamp  should  not  be  out  every 
evening ! 

At  the  cafe  they  began  to  accuse  one  another 
with  writing  the  article,  which  was  anonymous. 
That  vacant  table  near  the  wall  stood  like  the 
altar  of  a  deserted  shrine. 

One  day  Fuller,  the  musician,  met  Andras- 
ky  around  Tenth  Street,  going  in  the  opposite 
direction  from  the  Imperial. 

"Whereto,  Andrasky?" 

"Just  for  a  walk." 

And  because  he  did  not  ask  "Anybody 
there?"  Fuller  suspected  that  he  knew.  He 
followed  the  journalist  at  a  distance  and  dis 
covered  them,  the  three  of  them,  in  a  little  Rus 
sian  restaurant  on  Tenth  Street. 

In  a  week  all  the  Imperial  guests  had  gone 
over  to  the  Tenth  Street  cafe.  Neither  serv 
ice  nor  food  was  as  good  as  in  the  old  place, 
but  they  all  professed  to  like  the  new  one. 
They  did  not  know  whether  it  was  because  of 

11 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


Ferenczy  or  because  of  Theresa.  She  paid  no 
attention  at  all  to  them. 

In  the  following  few  months  some  of  the 
might-have-beens  tried  to  resurrect  themselves. 
One  of  the  former  poets  wrote  a  long  poem. 
Another  had  a  play  accepted.  The  composer 
tried  his  fingers  again  on  the  keyboard. 

The  tables  at  the  Imperial  were  vacant.  The 
waiters  were  asleep  on  their  feet.  It  lasted 
throughout  the  winter.  In  the  spring  the  pro 
prietor  went  into  bankruptcy. 

"Anybody  there?"  is  still  a  question  on  Sec 
ond  Avenue  after  midnight.  Only  the  "there" 
is  somewhere  else,  and  nobody  knows  who  the 
"Anybody"  is — not  even  Theresa,  because  in 
the  new  place  her  former  admirers  read  their 
poetry  and  plays,  try  their  songs  and  hang 
their  pictures  on  the  walls.  Even  her  table  is 
not  exclusively  HER  table  any  longer. 


12 


THE  TROUBLES  OF  A  PERFECT 
TYPE 

WALK  through  Grand  Street  from 
Third  Avenue  to  Clinton  Street,  which 
is  not  a  long  distance,  and  you  have  the  types 
of  the  whole  world  before  you.  They  are  not 
in  concentrated  form;  they  are  diluted.  But 
if  you  analyze,  even  hurriedly,  you  will  soon 
be  able  to  know  the  components  of  each  one  of 
them. 

A  remote  Tartar  ancestor  of  one  of  the 
push-cart  peddlers  is  plainly  seen  in  the  small 
sunken  black  eyes.  In  another  the  straight 
line  of  the  back  of  the  head  tells  you  that  his 
mother,  or  his  grandmother,  had  lived  once  in 
Hungary.  In  another  one  the  Slav  type,  the 
flat  fleshy  nose,  is  mixed  with  the  Wallachian 
strong  chin.  Some  Teuton  blood  calls  out 
through  the  heavy  cast  of  an  otherwise  typical 

13 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


Austrian  Jew.  A  Spanish  grandee,  as  if  come 
out  from  a  page  of  Cervantes,  is  selling  shoe 
laces  and  cuff  buttons.  And  a  Moroccan 
prince,  ill  at  ease  in  his  European  garb,  is  of 
fering  to  the  passerby  some  new  Burbankian 
fig-plum-orange  combination. 

The  vendors  call  out  their  wares  in  what 
seems  at  first  a  tongue  all  their  own.  But  a 
trained  ear  soon  discovers  that  it  is  English,  or 
rather  that  English  is  the  essential  component 
of  the  chemistry  of  their  language;  the  rest 
being  words  of  their  own  creation,  or  scraps 
from  a  dozen  other  languages  which  stuck  to 
the  people  of  woe  in  their  two  thousand  years 
peregrination  from  land  to  land. 

They  needed  a  Jewish  type  in  producing  a 
screen  drama.  Not  one  of  the  actors,  semi- 
actors  or  hanger-ons  of  the  company  fitted  the 
demands  of  the  omniscient  director;  so  he  set 
out  to  find  the  type  himself.  Seated  in  a  large 
touring  car,  he  traversed  every  street  of  lower 
Manhattan,  carefully  scanning  the  faces  of 

14 


THE  TROUBLES  OF  A  PERFECT  TYPE 

men.  For  a  full  week  he  thus  busied  himself 
without  much  success,  unable  to  discover  what 
he  wanted. 

The  beginning  of  the  second  week  found  the 
director  roaming  through  the  east  side  on  foot. 
He  stocked  up  more  cigarettes  than  his  pock 
ets  could  hold,  visiting  the  innumerable  little 
shops  on  every  street,  and  drank  tea  in  a  dozen 
obscure  cafes  without  locating  his  man,  the 
counterpart  of  his  imagination.  But  on  the 
fourth  day  of  the  second  week  his  patience  and 
perseverance  were  rewarded. 

As  he  was  sipping  a  glass  of  tea  in  a  little 
coffee  house  the  door  opened  and  a  tall,  lanky 
fellow  appeared  as  if  drawn  by  the  magic  pow 
er  of  the  director's  desire. 

He  sat  down  at  the  first  table  and  ordered 
something  to  eat.  The  director  could  not  take 
his  eyes  off  him.  That  spare,  long,  black 
beard,  undulating  to  midway  between  chin  and 
belt,  those  side  locks,  the  drooping  mustache 
that  hardly  covered  the  long  thin  upper  lip, 
that  misty  something  over  the  whole  counten- 

15 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


ance,  and  the  garb  in  which  the  man  was 
wrapped  up !  It  was  as  he  wanted,  and  better. 
It  was  the  ideal  type  for  which  he  had  searched 
the  whole  city  in  vain,  and  now,  suddenly,  when 
least  expected,  the  man  had  come  by  himself. 

Mr.  Cord  was  too  anxious  to  realize  his  plans 
to  be  bold  and  direct.  After  deliberating  with 
himself  as  to  the  best  method,  he  did  what  he 
had  seen  done  in  the  movies  years  ago.  He 
called  the  waiter,  tipped  him  liberally  and 
asked  information  about  the  man  sitting  at  the 
corner  table. 

"That  fellow  there?  It's  Samuelson,  from 
the  candy  store  on  the  corner." 

"Is  he  making  much  money?" 

"Him?"  the  waiter  sighed.  "Selling  four 
sticks  of  gum  and  three  packages  of  cigarettes 
a  day." 

Mr.  Cord  began  to  see  his  line  of  action. 

"Is  he  a  clever  fellow?" 

"He  plays  chess  with  the  boss  and  beats 
him  every  time." 

16 


THE  TROUBLES  OF  A  PERFECT  TYPE 

Meanwhile  the  bearded  fellow  got  through 
with  what  was  before  him,  wiped  his  mouth 
with  the  back  of  his  sleeve,  and  was  ready  to 
go,  when  the  director  called  out: 

"I  say,  Mr.  Samuelson,  can  I  see  you  for  a 
few  minutes?" 

"What  do  you  want  to  see  me  for?"  the  man 
asked,  hesitatingly  approaching  Mr.  Cord's 
table. 

"Would  you  not  sit  down  and  have  a  glass 
of  tea  with  me?  Waiter!  two  more  teas  and 
some  cake,  please." 

A  few  minutes  later  the  two  men  were  en 
gaged  in  earnest  conversation.  The  director 
wanted  to  draw  him  out  and  did  not  know 
how  to  do  it,  while  Samuelson  scented  that  the 
other  one  needed  him,  and  decided  to  be  on  his 
guard  until  he  should  know  more  definitely 
what  it  all  was  about. 

Has  he  ever  gone  to  the  theatre?  Sure 
enough.  He  has  seen  every  play  in  the  Jew- 

17 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


ish  theatres,  and  Libin  the  playwright,  bought 
his  cigarettes  from  him  every  day. 

Has  he  seen  the  movies?  Sure  enough. 
When  it  was  very  cold  in  the  store,  and  on 
Saturdays.  What  warmer  place  was  there 
than  the  movie  theatre  on  the  street!  And 
cheap  too,  five  cents,  including  war  tax. 

Does  he  like  them?  Of  course!  What  a 
question! 

How  would  he  like  to  be  seen  in  the  movies  ? 
Well,  that  was  a  different  question.  He  could 
not  do  any  of  the  stunts  the  movie  actors  do. 
Leaping  from  a  galloping  horse,  falling  down 
a  precipice,  or  walking  over  from  one  side  of 
the  street  to  the  other  on  a  telephone  wire  a 
hundred  feet  from  the  ground,  was  not  exactly 
his  profession  or  to  his  liking.  But  what  a 
director  wants  cannot  be  denied.  This  one 
talked  long  and  convincingly,  ordered  tea  after 
tea  and  cigar  after  cigar,  and  got  Samuelson 
so  excited  that  at  the  end  of  their  conversation 
the  candy  store  keeper  was  convinced  a  greater 
actor  than  himself  had  never  yet  trod  the  earth. 

18 


THE  TROUBLES  OF  A  PERFECT  TYPE 

To  clinch  the  bargain  the  director  gave  Sam- 
uelson  twenty  dollars  on  account  of  a  promised 
fifty  dollars  a  week  contract,  and  it  was  agreed 
that  the  store  keeper  was  to  present  himself 
ready  for  duty  a  week  later. 

And  now,  to  preserve  the  flavor  of  what 
happened,  I  will  tell  the  story  in  Samuelson's 
own  words — or  rather,  I  will  use  as  many  of 
Samuelson's  own  words  as  possible. 

"And  when  that  feller  Cord,  or  what's  his 
name,  when  he  walked  away  and  I  remain 
alone  with  twenty  dollars  in  my  fist — like  that 
— what  do  I  do  but  sit  and  think  what  a  great 
country  this  is. 

"In  Russia  I  have  been  a  tailor  twenty 
years,  and  nobody  saw  that  I  was  a  great  actor, 
not  even  myself.  I  met  thousands  of  people. 
They  saw  me  at  work  and  at  prayer.  They 
saw  me  every  week  day  and  every  Sabbath. 
My  own  wife  in  Russia  has  never  seen  that  I 
was  a  great  actor.  And  here  comes  a  man  I 
have  never  seen  and  who  never  saw  me  before 

19 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


and  offers  me  tea  and  cake  and  gives  me  twen 
ty  dollars  and  a  contract  for  fifty  dollars  a 
week,  and  who  tells  me  I  am  a  great  actor! 
So  of  course  I  am  a  great  actor. 

"So  this  is  a  great  country,  I  said  to  my 
self!  And  now  that  I  am  such  a  great  actor, 
why  should  I  have  such  a  little  store  that  don't 
even  pay  for  coals  in  the  winter?  Why  should 
I?  Why?  So  I  goes  out  to  Mendel  the  waiter 
and  he  calls  by  the  telephone  a  jobber  and  I 
sell  him  the  whole  store,  and  the  shelves,  and 
the  show  case,  and  the  sign  over  the  door,  and 
even  sell  him  the  big  lamp  I  bought  on  pay 
ments.  He  gives  me  two  hundred  dollars  for 
everything.  I  know  he  cheats  me,  but  what  do 
I  care!  Am  I  not  a  great  actor? 

"And  I  go  out  and  watch  the  great  actor, 
Adler,  come  out  of  the  theatre,  and  I  see  how 
he  goes  dressed  up  and  with  a  high  hat.  So  I 
say  to  myself,  this  is  how  you  have  to  be  dressed 
up.  And  I  go  in  a  store  and  buy  a  what  you 
call,  a  full  dress  suit  and  a  high  hat  and  white 

20 


THE  TROUBLES  OF  A  PERFECT  TYPE 

shirts  and  collars  and  neckties  and  patent 
leather  shoes.  And  I  go  to  a  barber  and  tell 
him :  This  is  a  great  country  and  I  am  a  great 
actor.  And  when  I  got  up  from  his  chair  I 
looked  almost  like  Adler.  The  hairs  cut  nicely 
and  no  beard,  no  moustache,  no  sidelocks. 

"When  I  am  through  I  go  to  the  office  of 
the  movie  -company. 

"When  Mr.  Cord  sees  me  all  dressed  up  and 
with  no  beard  he  gets  terribly  excited  and 
throws  me  out  of  the  office. 

"What  have  you  done  with  your  beard  and 
side  locks?"  he  yelled,  and  he  nearly  wanted  to 
murder  me. 

"And  now  I  have  to  sit  and  wait  until  my 
beard  and  mustache  will  grow  back.  I  am 
ashamed  to  go  to  the  cafe  house.  The  boss 
will  laugh,  the.  waiter  and  everybody  will 
laugh,  and  with  a  high  hat  how  can  I  go  to 
look  for  work  at  my  trade?  And  my  hairs 
grow  so  slowly! 

"What  kind  of  a  country  is  this?" 


21 


HOW  THE  IBANEZES  LOVE 

IF  you  ever  find  yourself  on  Thirty-fourth 
Street  near  Seventh  Avenue,  don't  fail  to 
hunt  up  a  certain  Spanish  table  d'hote  restaur 
ant.  This  section  of  New  York  is  like  a  bor 
der  town  on  the  lower  Pyrenees  in  France. 
People  speak  French  with  the  Spanish  accent 
and  Spanish  with  the  singsong  of  Southern 
France. 

Sitting  on  the  broad  steps  of  the  fine  old 
massive  brown  stone  houses  of  the  district,  chil 
dren  of  old  Catalonia,  Dons  and  Donas  from 
Madrid  and  Barcelona,  using  a  latinized  Eng 
lish  all  their  own,  exchange  stories  and  opin 
ions  with  their  French  neighbors. 

Chords  struck  on  a  guitar,  to  accompany  a 
subdued  voice,  high  colors  on  the  window  cur 
tains,  a  mixed  odor  of  garlic,  incense  and 
heavy-scented  perfumes,  suggest  something 

22 


HOW  THE  IBANEZES  LOVE 


indefinably  Moorish,  Alhambresque;  slow  yet 
passionate,  like  cold  fire. 

And  lo !  the  mirage  vanishes !  You  are  out 
of  the  district.  The  modest  warm  curve  of  the 
Orient  has  disappeared,  the  arrogant  cold 
straight  line  of  the  Occident  stares  at  you.  You 
are  in  the  heart  of  busy  old  New  York. 

But  if  you  are  hungry,  hungry  for  good, 
hunt  up  the  Ibanez  place.  Four  two-seat  ta 
bles,  two  three-seat  ones,  and  two  big  tables 
of  elastic  capacity  in  the  centre.  The  wall  pa 
per  is  red,  the  shade  on  the  lamps  brown,  the 
ceiling  is  golden,  the  lady  is  fair,  the  food  is 
good,  and  the  wine 

The  Ibanezes  have  a  daughter,  Juanita.  She 
was  twenty  when  I  last  saw  her.  Her  hair  fell 
over  the  forehead  like  foam  from  an  overful 
glass  of  liquid  amber.  Altogether  she  re 
minded  one  of  molten  gold  and  fire  and  honey. 

Pablo  Cortez,  the  Cuban  poet,  was  in  love 
with  Juanita  at  that  time.  She  was  not  indif 
ferent  to  his  attentions ;  yet  like  a  real  Spanish 

23 


.  I  — , - 

DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 

dona  she  allowed  him  to  woo  her  in  his  own 
fashion. 

The  last  clients  had  departed.  Cortez,  my 
self  and  Madame  Ibanez  were  drinking  coffee. 
Juanita  was  not  well.  Pablo  had  brought 
some  of  his  latest  poems  which  he  wanted  to 
read  to  all  of  us.  Madame  Ibanez  thought 
them  beautiful,  but  she  became  very  serious 
when  the  poet  told  her  they  were  dedicated  to 
her  daughter. 

Her  smile  vanished,  the  face  and  body  be 
came  taut,  and  her  eyes,  like  two  big  search 
lights,  seared  through  to  the  man's  heart.  After 
a  while  she  relaxed,  lit  a  cigarette,  brought 
some  more  coffee  and  seating  herself  between 
us  two  she  said: 

"You  two  have  been  talking  the  whole  eve 
ning.  I  too,  want  to  tell  a  story. 

"There  was  a  young  couple  I  knew  twenty- 
five  years  ago.  They  were  both  artists.  She 
was  a  pianist  and  he  was  a  singer.  He  had  the 

24 


HOW  THE  IBANEZES  LOVE 


most  beautiful  voice  I  ever  heard — and  I  have 
heard  a  lot  of  good  voices.  Her  father  was  a 
rich  merchant  and  had  planned  differently  for 
his  daughter,  but  she  fell  in  love  with  Pedro 
and  eloped  with  him. 

"At  Boulogne  they  took  a  steamer  for  Ha 
vana  and  landed  there  penniless,  absolutely 
penniless.  Another  piece  of  sugar,  Don  Pab 
lo?  non?  Well,  they  landed  penniless.  But 
he  had  some  friends  there  who  bestirred  them 
selves,  and  in  ten  days  they  had  arranged  the 
first  concert  in  the  largest  hall  of  Havana.  It 
was  more  than  a  success,  it  was  a  triumph.  She 
acted  as  his  accompanist. 

"That  night  they  vowed  one  to  another  that 
he  would  never  sing  with  another  accompanist, 
and  she  would  never  play  the  accompaniments 
to  another  singer. 

"His  voice  and  her  playing  pleased  the  Cu 
bans  so  much  the  couple  had  to  appear  in  con 
cert  several  times  a  week.  Money  flowed  in 
from  all  sides.  The  young  wife  sometimes 
longed  for  home  and  hers,  she  loved  her  people 

25 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


very  much.  But  Pedro  kissed  away  her  wor 
ries — sang  away  her  longings.  They  were  very 
happy. 

"A  manager  got  hold  of  them  and  pretty 
soon  they  had  engagements  from  San  Fran 
cisco  all  the  way  to  New  York. 

"When  they  arrived  in  San  Francisco  it  was 
spring.  Pedro  had  a  slight  cold,  and  went  to 
see  the  doctor  his  manager  recommended  to 
him.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  been 
out  alone  since  they  eloped  from  Madrid.  She 
was  too  tired  to  accompany  him.  He  had  to 
return  the  next  day,  and  the  next,  for  treat 
ment. 

"On  the  fourth  day  was  the  concert.  A 
phenomenal  success.  Pedro  sang  better  than 
ever.  His  wife  sitting  at  the  piano  felt  the 
envy  of  a  thousand  women.  And  she  was  proud 
of  her  Pedro.  His  voice  rose  and  fell  and  rip 
pled,  and  between  the  folds  of  sound  were  jew 
els  of  all  colors. 

"Still,  on  the  next  day  he  went  to  see  the 
doctor.  When  he  returned  he  was  irritable, 

26 


HOW  THE  IBANEZES  LOVE 


quarrelsome,  and  refused  to  even  go  out  with 
her. 

"She  cried.  What  else  can  a  woman  do? 
He  quieted  her  soon,  and  made  her  beg  for 
giveness.  The  reason  for  his  irritability  was, 
he  said,  the  condition  of  his  throat,  as  the  doc 
tor  had  explained  it  to  him.  It  made  her  sit 
up  the  whole  night.  What  if  her  Pedro  should 
lose  his  golden  voice? 

"The  next  morning  she  made  herself  ready 
to  go  with  him  to  the  doctor.  It  was  an  Ital 
ian  who  knew  French  well.  She  would  try 
to  get  him  to  tell  her  the  truth  about  her  hus 
band's  voice.  But  Pedro  insisted  that  she  must 
remain  home.  She  did  not  have  proper  street 
wear  to  conceal  her  state.  He  talked  and  talked 
until  she  gave  in  and  remained  home. 

"No  sooner  was  he  gone  and  she  regretted 
to  have  let  him  go  alone.  Why!  in  a  taxi  she 
could  be  there  without  being  much  seen  by  any 
one! 

"She  dressed  hurriedly  and  was  soon  at  the 
medical  man's  door.  She  heard  Pedro's  voice. 

27 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


He  sang  to  a  piano's  accompaniment.  The 
voice  was  as  clear  as  a  bell,  the  'tessatura'  as 
firm  as  rich  velvet. 

"She  rang  the  bell.  A  servant  came  out. 
'No,  the  doctor  was  not  in  town.' 

'  'He  has  not  been  in  town  the  last  two  days. 
He  was  always  away  on  Wednesday,  Thurs 
day  and  Friday  of  every  week.' 
"  'Who's  playing?  who's  singing?' 

'The  great  tenor  and  the  doctor's  wife' 

"And  the  door  closed  with  a  bang. 
"Pedro  came  home  a  few  hours  later. 
'  'Pedro,  what  did  the  doctor  say?' 
'  'He  said  I  must  see  him  at  least  three  times 
a  week — on  Wednesdays,  Thursdays  and  Fri 
days — all  the  time  we  shall  be  here.' 

"Then  they  went  down  to  the  restaurant  to 
dine.  He  was  very  gay,  very  well  disposed 
when  they  returned  to  their  apartments.  They 
sat  down  to  drink  Spanish  lemonade  which 
only  she  knew  how  to  prepare  exactly  to  his 
taste. 

"There  was  only  one  cry — the  rest  was  only 
28 


HOW  THE  IBANEZES  LOVE 


guttural  noise.  A  few  drops  in  the  drink  and 
his  vocal  chords  were  destroyed  forever — he 
never  sang  again  to  another  woman's  accom 
paniments." 

"And  the  woman,  Madame  Ibanez?  What 
happened  to  the  woman?" 

"She  kept  her  vow.  She  never  played  ac 
companiments  to  another  man's  singing.  She 
opened  a  restaurant,  Don  Pablo ;  her  man  be 
came  the  cook.  And  now  a  poet  thinks  he 
loves  their  daughter." 

Like  silver  crystals  detaching  themselves 
from  onyx  flames,  two  tears  rolled  down  the 
parched  cheeks  of  the  woman. 

"Pablo  Cortez  must  know  how  the  Ibanezes 
take  love,  and  think  twice  before  he  dedicates 
his  poems." 

Some  gruntlings  were  heard  from  the  other 
side  of  the  partition.  Madame  Ibanez  stood 
up. 

29 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


"It's  best  you  gentlemen  leave  now.  Poor 
Pedro  must  be  very  tired." 

Pablo  Cortez  returned  to  Cuba  on  the  next 
steamer. 

If  you  ever  are  hungry  while  in  the  neigh 
borhood  of  Thirty-fourth  Street  and  Seventh 
Avenue,  look  up  the  Ibanezes  place.  Juanita 
serves  the  new  guests. 


80 


THE  LITTLE  MAN  OF  28TH  STREET 

SOME  people  call  him  Signer,  but  he  is 
better  known  as  "Unique"  and  many 
more  people  call  him  "Signor  Unique."  He 
is  a  bent  little  man  in  a  long  green  Prince  Al 
bert  coat  that  was  once  black.  A  short  gray 
beard  frames  a  pale  face  in  squashed  folds  on 
which  squats  a  flat  nose.  Bushy,  low-arched 
eyebrows  shade  two  little  eyes  which  move  rap 
idly  up  and  down  and  in  and  out  of  their  orbs 
as  move  scared  little  mice  in  their  hole.  Such 
is  the  appearance  of  Signor  when  you  meet 
him  in  his  musty  shop  littered  with  bric-a-brac. 
On  the  street  his  gait  is  so  irregular  it  sug 
gests  that  he  is  vociferating  with  his  legs ;  that 
the  two  limbs  are  quarreling  with  the  jerking 
arms  and  that  the  four  limbs  argue  each  sep 
arately  with  the  pavement  and  the  curb  stones 
about  things  we  simple  mortals  will  never  un 
derstand. 

31 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


From  where  and  when  he  came  here  nobody 
knows.  But  all  the  antiquarians  on  28th  Street 
swear — and  some  of  these  gentlemen  are  much 
older  than  the  antiques  they  sell — that  Signor 
was  there  before  any  of  them  was  born,  that 
his  shop  is  the  oldest  on  the  street. 

They  also  assure  you  that  he  can  "smell"  a 
fake  antique  from  a  distance.  In  fact,  they 
maintain,  this  sixth  sense  of  Signor  has  been 
his  undoing.  He  could  not  "guarantee"  the 
genuineness  of  an  article.  He  knew  too  much. 

Most  of  the  others  guaranteed  in  good  faith 
and  ignorance  thousands  of  pieces,  and  made 
fortunes,  where  Signor  only  shook  his  head  de 
risively. 

They  have  sold  "genuine"  Memlings  to  col 
lecting  millionaires,  swords  of  Gaspard  Oli- 
vares  and  statues  of  Osiris  as  well  as  Chinese 
porcelains  and  Buddhas,  the  origin  of  which 
they  refused  to  know,  while  Signor  maintained 
that  the  real  things  still  on  the  market  would 
not  fill  a  good  sized  shoe. 

On  the  dusty  shelves  in  Signor's  store  are 
32 


THE  LITTLE  MAN  OF  28TH  STREET 

pieces  in  brass,  pewter,  glass  and  iron  of  no 
particular  artistic  value,  but  the  origin  of  each 
thing  is  guaranteed  by  the  dusty  old  man. 

He  will  tell  you  the  whole  history  of  every 
bit  of  metal  in  his  shop.  And  if  you  think  him 
stark  mad  when  he  announces  the  price  of  the 
iron  hinge  on  which  once  hung  the  principal 
door  of  the  Amiens  Cathedral,  or  of  the  brass 
lantern  which  once  adorned  the  nuptial  cham 
bers  of  the  Moor  King  Mambrin  of  Don  Quix 
ote  fame — if  you  are  stunned  by  Signer's 
prices  he  will  tell  you  that  all  these  things  are 
"unique." 

Signor  never  owned  or  sold  a  thing  which 
was  not  unique.  He  has  investigated  that  Ca 
thedral  door  hinge  and  convinced  himself  that 
the  upper  hinge  on  which  now  hangs  the  door 
is  a  new  one.  As  to  the  brass  lantern,  he  has 
a  hundred  authorities  to  strengthen  his  allega 
tion. 

One  must  know  that  Signor  does  not  deal  in 
things  that  have  their  counterpart  somewhere 
on  this  planet. 

33 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


But  above  all,  Signer  has  always  been  proud 
of  his  collection  of  stamps.  Among  the  phi 
latelists  the  world  over  he  is  listed  as  the  owner 
of  the  most  searched  for  stamps. 

There  are  standing  offers  of  thousands  of 
dollars  for  some  of  the  little  colored  squares  of 
paper  Signor  is  tucking  safely  away  in  his 
heavy  safe  every  sundown.  Bent  over  his  little 
desk  in  a  corner  of  his  darkened  shop,  the  old 
man  is  daily  examining  his  stamp  collection. 

He  looks  them  over  again  and  again;  treats 
them,  where  there  is  suspicion  of  decay,  nurses 
them  back  to  health,  using  medicines  from  la 
belled  bottles  or  by  exposing  them  to  the  air 
after  mid-day,  when  the  rays  of  the  sun  no 
longer  affect  color  and  tissue. 

No  living  thing  ever  had  his  care.  To  these 
square  pieces  of  paper  he  has  devoted  all  his 
life.  To  obtain  them  he  has  schemed  and  wor 
ried  and  worked  and  lived. 

Of  all  the  stamps  in  his  collection,  Signor 
had  one  which  had  given  him  the  greatest 

34 


THE  LITTLE  MAN  OF  28TH  STREET 

trouble  and  which  he  had  nursed  for  years.  It 
was  the  only  postage  stamp  left  of  a  first  emis 
sion  of  one  of  the  Bahama  Islands. 

For  some  reason  or  other  this  stamp  was 
perforated  and  the  edge  around  the  holes  in 
the  paper  was  thinning  away  with  a  rapidity 
which  frightened  the  old  philatelist. 

He  loved  that  stamp  as  a  father  loves  a  sick 
child  of  genius.  There  was  not  another  one 
like  it  in  the  world.  Not  another  bit  of  car 
mine  paper  with  a  five-cornered  crown  and  a 
small  cross  a  little  off  centre. 

There  was  a  standing  offer  for  the  stamp  by 
a  philatelist  of  London  who  had  tried  for  years 
to  induce  Signor  to  part  with  it,  but  the  bent 
little  man  prized  and  loved  the  stamp  even 
more,  when  he  knew  how  much  the  other  man 
across  the  waters  wanted  to  have  it. 

Out  of  sheer  perversity,  he  occasionally 
wrote  to  London  to  find  out  whether  James 
Bolton  would  not  offer  a  bigger  price.  With 
each  increase  the  other  offered,  he  grew  in  Sig- 

35 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


nor's  estimation.    But  to  part  with  the  "Baha 
ma"  was  another  question  1 

And  suddenly,  through  some  other  philatel 
ist,  Signer  learned  that  there  existed  in  Mexico 
City  another  "Bahama,"  just  like  his  own.  At 
first  he  pretended  that  he  did  not  believe  the 
report.  He  was  so  sure  that  the  one  he  had 
was  unique!. 

But  little  by  little  the  suspicion  of  such  pos 
sibility  wormed  itself  into  him  and  undermined 
his  confidence.  He  looked  at  the  stamp,  ques- 
tioningly,  as  one  would  at  the  corpse  of  a 
dead  woman,  whose  faithfulness  was  just  im 
pugned,  but  there  was  no  answer. 

A  few  days  later,  unable  to  live  in  doubt, 
Signer  was  en  route  to  Mexico  City. 

After  maneuvering  for  a  week  he  found  out 
that  Don  Garaye  had  once  possessed  such  a 
stamp,  but  had  sold  it  to  a  house  in  Lisbon, 
Portugal.  There  was  no  more  impatient  man 
on  the  boat  than  the  Signor. 

36 


THE  LITTLE  MAN  OF  28TH  STREET 

The  expanse  of  water  and  sky  was  nothing 
to  him.  The  thousands  of  horse  power  of  the 
big  engines  harnessed  did  not  work  fast  enough 
and  the  possible  quest  of  every  one  on  the  boat 
dwindled  to  meaninglessness  before  the  impor 
tance  of  his  own. 

Without  a  night's  rest  he  hurried  from 
Havre  to  Paris  and  fumed  and  fretted  the  few 
hours  he  had  to  wait  for  the  Madrid  express. 
After  three  days  travel  in  the  train,  crossing 
France  and  Spain,  Signer  reached  the  city  of 
Lisbon.  But  lo,  the  stamp,  exchanged  for  a 
collection  of  other  things,  was  now  in  Italy. 
The  old  Raspiegli  of  Rome,  Italy's  oldest  phi 
latelist,  had  acquired  the  much  sought  for 
unique  "Bahama." 

News  of  sudden  inquiries  travels  fast  among 
antiquarians  and  philatelists  and  the  frequency 
of  such  inquiries  raises  the  value  of  the  thing 
inquired  for. 

Giuseppe  Raspiegli  of  Rome  knew  all  about 
Signor's  travels  ere  that  gentleman  crossed  the 

37 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


frontier  of  Italy.  When  an  old  man  in  a 
Prince  Albert  coat,  casually  visited  his  shop 
and  inquired  about  a  perforated  Bahama 
stamp  the  Rome  philatelist  just  as  casually  an 
swered  that  the  little  thing  was  somewhere  in 
Italy  and  that  he  could  procure  it  if — if  Signor 
was  serious  enough.  Signor  answered  that  he 
wanted  to  see  it,  but  when  he  heard  the  price 
Raspiegli  asked,  he  threw  his  hands  up.  It 
was  double  the  amount  he  ever  dared  to  ask 
for  his  Bahama. 

For  weeks  at  a  stretch  Signor  secluded  him 
self  in  his  little  attic  room  overlooking  the  Ti 
ber.  For  hours  and  hours  he  looked  at  his  own 
Bahama,  he  had  believed  so  many  years  to  be 
unique. 

Raspiegli  demanded  such  an  enormous  sum 
for  his  stamp!  It  was  in  much  better  condi 
tion  than  the  one  Signor  owned.  Time  had 
been  kindlier  to  its  color  and  tissue.  But  the 
price  was  an  enormous  one.  It  was  almost 
all  he  possessed.  It  meant  ruin. 

38 


THE  LITTLE  MAN  OF  28TH  STREET 

The  old  philatelist  could  neither  eat  nor 
sleep.  His  limbs  grew  even  more  quarrelsome 
with  one  another  and  his  bent  shoulders  now 
frequently  entered  the  argument. 

Raspiegli  was  made  of  adamant.  He  had 
fixed  his  price  and  would  not  relent. 

He  had  sized  up  his  customer  and  knew  that 
sooner  or  later  the  little  man  would  open  his 
wallet  and  pay. 

Meanwhile  Signer  starved  himself  to  death. 
When  he  had  finally  decided  to  pay  the  price 
to  Raspiegli  he  had  just  enough  left  to  carry 
him  home  on  the  next  boat. 

That  last  night  in  the  attic  room  overlooking 
the  Tiber  was  one  of  great  suffering.  He  cried. 
He  tore  his  hair.  He  bit  his  nails. 

But  early  morning  found  him  at  the  door  of 
Raspiegli,  money  in  hand. 

"It  is  all  I  possess  Maestro  Raspiegli,"  he 
muttered. 

"Which  shows  you  are  a  real  philatelist,"  the 
39 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


Italian  answered  suavely  as  he  counted  the 
money. 

From  the  deepest  recess  of  the  safe  he 
brought  out  the  little  square  of  carmine  paper. 
Signor  looked  at  it  again.  No  doubt  it  was 
in  a  better  state  of  preservation  than  his  own, 
but  he  felt  no  warmth,  no  intimacy,  no  kinship 
with  it. 

"You  will  probably  yet  make  a  profit  on  it," 
Raspiegli  disturbed  the  old  man's  contempla 
tion. 

"A  profit!  A  profit!  I  did  not  buy  it  to 
make  a  profit.  I  only  wanted  that  my  own 
Bahama  should  be  the  only  one  of  its  kind." 

As  he  spoke  he  lit  a  match  and  before  Ras 
piegli  had  time  to  interfere  the  ashes  of  the 
other  "Bahama"  mixed  with  the  dust  on  the 
floor. 

For  Signor  things  had  to  be  unique  to  be 
worth  keeping. 


THE  NEWLY-RICH  GOLDSTEINS 

T.HE  Goldsteins  were  destined  for  light 
work  and  comfort.  "Middle  Class"  was 
stamped  on  their  faces  and  radiated  from  their 
speech  and  movements.  Every  stitch  of  cloth 
ing  proclaimed  that  they  belonged  to  the  hap 
py,  contended-with-what-God-gives  middle 
class. 

"H.  Goldstein  &  Co.,  Embroidery,"  occu 
pied  the  first  floor  of  a  dilapidated  building  on 
St.  Mark's  Place  near  Third  Avenue.  The  two 
daughters,  Sophy  and  Leah,  were  the  working 
force  of  the  firm.  H.  Goldstein  himself  was 
the  salesman,  bookkeeper,  deliverer,  collector 
and  buyer.  Four  sewing  machines  near  the 
rear  windows,  a  table,  an  assortment  of  card 
board  boxes  and  a  few  shelves  in  a  corner  were 
all  the  machinery  of  the  factory. 

But  the  Goldsteins  were  a  contented  lot. 
They  lived  in  a  five-room  apartment  on  Tenth 

41 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


Street,  had  good  old  soft  chairs  to  sit  on;  Mrs. 
Goldstein  prepared  fine  meals,  and  on  Satur 
day  as  the  factory  was  closed  each  one  of  the 
family  had  his  own  private  joys.  H.  Gold 
stein  went  to  the  synagogue  to  meet  his  old 
friends  and  discuss  the  Talmud.  Mrs.  Gold 
stein  visited  all  her  relatives  on  the  Sabbath. 
Sophy  was  out  with  her  beau,  Joseph  Katz; 
and  Leah  strolled  on  Second  Avenue  on  the 
arm  of  Maurice  Feldman. 

The  factory  just  covered  house  expenses 
and  a  small  dollar  or  two  for  a  rainy  day  saved 
by  Mrs.  Goldstein  from  table  money.  But 
they  were  independent,  in  business  for  them 
selves,  as  befits  the  Goldsteins  the  whole  world 
over,  and  not  hired  workers.  At  the  syna 
gogue,  Hirsh  Goldstein  was  respected  for  his 
learning  and  piety;  and  though  his  contribu 
tions  were  not  very  large,  still  they  were  never 
beggarly. 

When  America  entered  the  War  the  em 
broidery  business  took  a  jump.  The  Gold- 

42 


THE  NEWLY-RICH  GOLDSTEINS 

steins  obtained  orders  for  shoulder  straps,  ep 
aulets,  chevrons,  hat  bands  and  a  lot  of  other 
paraphernalia  absolutely  necessary  to  soldiers 
and  officers  to  go  over  the  top.  The  Goldsteins 
added  four  more  machines  and  hired  half  a 
dozen  Italian  girls  for  the  work.  Soon  even 
this  enlarged  force  could  not  cope  with  the  or 
ders.  Another  floor  was  hired,  six  more  ma 
chines  fixed  up,  and  Joseph  Katz,  Sophy's 
beau,  became  the  bookkeeper.  Three  months 
later  the  factory  moved  to  a  Bond  Street  loft 
and  sixty  machines,  power  driven  and  of  the 
latest  model,  were  installed.  Little  by  little 
the  Sabbath  was  neglected.  The  rush  orders 
forced  them  to  work  seven  days  a  week,  seven 
days  and  seven  nights.  Maurice  Feldman, 
Leah's  beau,  was  engaged  as  assistant  book 
keeper. 

"Reb  Goldstein,  we  missed  you  last  Satur 
day,"  friends  questioned  him  at  the  synagogue. 

"The  Talmud  says,  'The  welfare  of  the 
country  you  live  in  stands  higher  than  your 
own  rites,'  "  was  all  he  answered. 

43 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


Though  people  knew  that  his  translation  of 
the  passage  was  a  bit  loose,  they  did  not  inter 
fere. 

After  the  factory  had  moved  over  to  Bond 
Street  Sophy  and  Leah  remained  at  home. 
Their  presence  in  the  factory  was  no  longer 
needed. 

Mother  Goldstein  argued  that  it  ill-befitted 
the  daughters  of  so  big  a  manufacturer  to  be 
working.  Goldstein  was  making  money  faster 
than  he  could  count  it.  The  girls  were  flat 
tered  and  adulated  wherever  they  went,  and 
they  began  to  think  the  Tenth  Street  apart 
ment  and  the  district  they  lived  in  entirely  out 
of  keeping  with  their  new  station  in  life.  They 
had  rich  clothing  now,  and  thought  themselves 
too  good  for  their  former  friends. 

A  large  contribution  to  a  charitable  under 
taking  brought  the  young  ladies  an  invitation 
to  a  party  given  by  some  wealthy  people  on 
Riverside  Drive.  It  was  the  first  time  they 
had  seen  such  living  quarters.  It  sharpened 

44 


THE  NEWLY-RICH  GOLDSTEINS 

their  appetites  to  the  pomps  and  vanities  of  the 
world.  It  made  them  feel  the  people  living 
downtown  were  dust  or  dross. 

Maurice  Feldman  and  Joseph  Katz  were 
the  first  to  feel  the  changed  attitude.  Sure 
enough!  The  young  ladies  were  not  going  to 
marry  their  father's  bookkeepers! 

Riverside  Drive  became  the  ideal  of  the  two 
sisters.  At  first  the  father  refused  even  to  hear 
of  it.  But  when  fortune  had  favored  him  and 
he  made  a  lump  sum  in  some  side  speculation, 
he  half  gave  his  consent. 

At.  the  synagogue  he  was  seldom  seen,  and 
if  he  happened  to  come  once  in  a  while  he  was 
not  as  warmly  greeted  as  formerly.  He  had 
offended  several  members  of  the  congregation, 
had  humbled  them,  by  giving  a  donation  of  a 
hundred  dollars  when  they  had  only  given  ten. 

When  the  two  sisters  had  won  over  their 
mother  to  the  Riverside  Drive  plan  the  father 
could  no  longer  resist.  Soon  an  interior  dec 
orator  was  busy  garnishing  the  nine-room  two- 

45 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


bath  apartment,  with  brand-new  highly  pol 
ished  furniture.  Gold-tinted  hangings  and 
gold  painted  chairs,  bookcases  filled  with  de 
luxe  sets  in  red  and  blue,  an  Oriental  room,  a 
Louis  XV.  piano,  and  "real"  oil  paintings. 
Sophy  and  Leah  were  all  the  time  buying  new 
things.  The  visits  to  the  great  stores  did  not 
improve  taste,  but  it  pricked  ambition.  When 
the  bustle  ended,  the  Goldsteins  had  spent  a 
young  fortune  on  the  Riverside  apartment. 
The  rooms  were  well  filled  with  whatever  could 
be  bought,  with  all  the  Goldsteins  could  afford ; 
and  they  could  afford  a  good  deal,  because 
Hirsh  Goldstein  was  making  more  money  than 
he  had  ever  dared  to  dream. 

The  war  had  to  be  won,  and  it  could  not  be 
done  without  the  assistance  of  "H.  Goldstein 
&  Co." 

The  first  few  days  the  Goldsteins  enjoyed 
their  acquisitions  so  much  they  had  no  time 
to  think  of  anything  else.  Then  they  joined  a 
fashionable  temple.  The  daughters  became 

46 


THE  NEWLY-RICH  GOLDSTEINS 

members  of  charitable  societies,  the  member 
ship  of  which  was  composed  of  older  par- 
venues.  The  downtown  crowd  and  old  asso 
ciations  were  forgotten  in  the  whirl.  When 
some  of  the  relatives  came  to  visit  the  Gold 
steins,  they  felt  so  outclassed  and  outdistanced 
that  they  never  returned  again. 

But  after  the  girls  had  wearied  somewhat  of 
their  furniture  and  things,  they  began  to  no 
tice  that  the  new  acquaintances  made  no 
friendly  overtures.  A  feeling  stole  over  them 
that  their  new  friends  laughed  behind  their 
backs.  Whenever  they  happened  to  be  in  the 
company  of  the  new  aristocracy,  the  others 
spoke  of  things  they  knew  nothing  about.  The 
others,  college  bred  most  of  them,  mentioned 
names  of  authors  and  artists  the  Goldsteins 
had  never  heard  of  before.  The  others  had 
tapering  fine  finger-nails,  slender  wrists,  thin 
ankles,  and  wore  the  simplest  clothes  with  dis 
tinction. 

Sophy  and  Leah  felt  that  the  young  men  of 
47 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


the  new  set  avoided  them.  They  were  always 
courteous,  but  cold — cold  to  the  invaders.  But 
of  course  they  could  not  think  of  marrying  the 
firm's  bookkeepers — twenty-five-dollar-a-week 
men!  Yet  they  despaired  ever  to  find  mates 
from  amongst  those  other  people. 

Once  a  collection  was  made  to  cover  some 
minor  expense  of  a  children's  party.  Sophy 
gave  a  hundred  dollars.  She  surprised  the 
others  laughing,  and  never  knew  whether  she 
had  given  too  much  or  too  little.  Hirsh  Gold 
stein  did  not  fare  any  better.  The  German 
Jews  he  met  at  the  synagogue  were  nice  and 
polite,  but  patronizing  to  an  exasperating  de 
gree.  Though  they  accepted  his  gifts  for  the 
synagogue  and  other  charities,  they  looked 
down  upon  him.  When  he  gave  a  small 
amount  he  was  criticized  as  a  miser,  when  he 
gave  a  big  sum  he  was  a  parvenu.  He  missed 
his  old  cronies.  He  had  no  chance  to  exhibit 
learning  to  those  "new  people." 

Mrs.  Goldstein  wandered  about  the  rooms, 
48 


THE  NEWLY-RICH  GOLDSTEINS 

as  if  in  a  prison.  It  was  seldom  that  anybody 
ever  visited  the  family  now.  They  were  re 
puted  to  be  so  rich  1  Joseph  and  Maurice  came 
once  to  Sophy's  birthday  party,  but  they 
found  there  other  guests,  and  felt  lonesome. 
The  Goldsteins  had  not  learned  how  to  be 
idling  busily. 

The  two  sisters  now  lacked  a  certain  free 
dom  of  movement,  surety  of  action.  Sophy 
began  to  long  for  the  firm  grasp  of  Maurice's 
hand.  Leah  longed  to  hear  Joseph's  simple 
songs.  The  house  with  all  its  new  wealth  was 
not  their  home.  It  was  too  cold,  too  new,  too 
clean.  The  men  and  women  they  met  were 
not  of  their  kind.  The  Goldsteins  felt  daily 
that  they  were  only  tolerated  by  them. 

This  situation  lasted  six  months. 

Then  Hirsh  Goldstein  returned  to  his  old 
synagogue  on  Hester  Street.  He  went  there 
in  his  old  coat.  To  make  up  with  his  old 
friends  he  gave  only  five  dollars  when  he  was 
called  to  read  from  the  holy  book. 

"Hirsh  is  down  from  his  high  horse,"  they 
49 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


whispered,  when  he  returned  the  next  week 
bringing  his  wife  also  to  the  synagogue.  She 
too  came  in  her  second  best  wraps. 

A  few  weeks  Inter  the  news  spread  that  the 
Goldsteins  had  lost  most  of  their  fortune  or 
all  of  it.  Sophy  and  Leah  came  downtown  to 
a  party  to  which  former  friends  invited  them, 
just  to  show  that  it  mattered  riot.  And  it  was 
so  nice  and  friendly!  Everybody  was  so  fa 
miliar  arid  intimate. 

"If  you  want  any  one  to  speak  to  you,  leave 
all  the  junk  here,"  Sophy  told  Leah,  who  had 
put  on  the  greater  part  of  her  jewelry  for  the 
occasion. 

The  Goldsteins  rented  an  apartment  on 
Tenth  Street,  hut  this  time  the  old  people  fur 
nished  it.  They  bought  good  soft  chairs,  the 
kind  they  had  had  before,  and  a  multicolored 
carpet  for  the  flwr  of  the  front  room,  and  a 
red  settee  which  did  riot  look  severe  and  stylish, 
but  inviting.  It  was  just  one  step  ahead  in 
point  of  comfort  and  luxury  from  the  one  they 

50 


THE  NEWLY-RICH  GOLDSTEINS 

had  had  before  the  adventure  on  the  Drive.  It 
was  home  again. 

The  Drive  apartment  was  sublet,  all  fur 
nished.  Maurice  eame  Imek  to  Sophy,  Joseph 
to  Leah,  and  every  time  one  of  the  family 
bought  clothes  or  jewelry  great,  care  was  taken 
not  to  overdo  not  to  scare  away  old  friends, 
not  to  soar  too  high  with  the  first  wind.  Kvery 
time  some  expensive  dress  was  suggested  by 
some  friends  they  exclaimed  in  chorus. 

"\Ve  can't  afford  it.     Times  are  hard." 

Hut  they  were  happy  again. 


ALL   IN   ONE   WILD   ROUMANIAN 
SONG 

SOME  day  some  one  should  chart  New 
York — some  one  who  does  not  know  a 
thing  about  statistics,  who  will  study  every 
section  just  for  the  love  of  it,  without  even 
thinking  of  selling  the  story  to  a  newspaper. 
To  this  some  one  I  will  give  some  valuable 
points  of  which  very  few  are  aware. 

In  the  hope  that  I  may  tempt  such  a  one, 
I  will  give  out  the  points  one  by  one.  Here 
is  the  first  one: 

The  map  of  Europe  is  reproduced  in  New 
York  by  the  different  nationalities  living  here ; 
each  nationality  having  as  neighbor  the  same 
that  it  has  in  Europe.  Thus,  the  Greeks, 
Turks,  Syrians  and  Italians  are  close  neigh 
bors  in  Europe,  and  also  here.  The  same  thing 
applies  to  the  Russians,  who  are  neighbors 

52 


ALL  IN  ONE  WILD  ROUMANIAN  SONG 

with  the  Roumanians,  the  Poles,  the  Austrians 
and  the  Germans.  And  one  must  not  think 
that  love  attracts  them.  They  hate  one  an 
other  as  whole-heartedly  as  only  neighbors  can 
hate  one  another.  Perhaps  this  mutual  hatred 
attracts  them :  Hatred  is  not  as  bad  as  we  have 
been  taught  to  think.  One  can,  and  generally 
does,  love  lower  than  himself,  but  no  one  hates 
lower  than  himself.  Hence: 

The  Roumanian  quarter  of  New  York  is 
perhaps  the  most  interesting  one.  It  really 
starts  at  Delancey  Street  and  the  Bowery,  and 
is  bounded  by  Houston  Street,  north  of  which 
is  Hungary  and  east  of  which  are  Bulgaria, 
Serbia  and  a  group  of  other  Balkanic  peoples. 

What  distinguishes  the  Roumanian  quarter 
is  the  people's  carefree  way  of  living.  Cafes, 
amusement  places,  pastry  shops,  everywhere. 
And  you  can  hear  music  streaming  out  from 
every  window.  The  sound  from  a  grand  piano 
on  which  some  one  is  essaying  Beethoven's 
"Appassionata,"  or  Sarasate's  undying  and 
hackneyed  "Gypsy  Airs,"  played  on  a  violin  to 

53 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


a  very  inadequate  accompaniment.  Song,  mu 
sic  and  color,  whichever  way  you  turn. 

But  you  only  get  the  fringe  of  it,  until  you 
come  down  to  Moskowitz's  cellar  on  Rivington 
Street.  And  though  the  wine  there  is  not  as 
good  as  the  music,  the  place  is  always  full — to 
the  glory  of  the  Roumanians  who  know  that 
no  wine  could  be  so  good  as  to  surpass  the 
quality  of  the  music  one  hears  there. 

The  place  is  literally  filled  every  night.  You 
see,  the  real  difference  between  the  Russians 
and  the  Roumanians  is — the  Russians  talk  pol 
itics,  literature  and  philosophy  when  they  come 
together,  while  the  Roumanians  like  to  hear 
good  music  and  drink  wine  in  company.  So 
they  come,  whole  parties,  whole  families,  chil 
dren  and  all,  to  Moskowitz's. 

And  Moskowitz  himself  presides  over  his 
instrument,  the  cimbalon,  and  striking  the 
tense  wires  with  two  little  wooden  sticks  he 
draws  out  from  them  the  weirdest  sounds,  the 
saddest  chords,  dissolving  into  the  wildest 
dances.  Of  course  Moskowitz  plays  regular 

54 


ALL  IN  ONE  WILD  ROUMANIAN  SONG 

stuff  also ;  hits  and  misses  of  the  popular  reper 
toire  of  the  vaudeville,  etc.,  but  he  does  this 
only  when  his  guests  are  eating — orders  from 
Mrs.  Moskowitz,  you  know,  who  does  not  want 
food  compared  with  her  husband's  Roumanian 
music. 

Marco,  the  young  Roumanian  painter,  was 
in  love  with  Fay  Roberts,  a  gifted  American 
girl  from  up-State,  who  had  made  Greenwich 
Village  her  abode.  She  was  so  gifted  in  many 
directions  that  she  was  a  failure  at  everything 
— except  being  loved.  In  this  she  had  suc 
ceeded  very  well.  A  dozen  artists  and  two 
dozen  business  men  were  in  love  with  this  pos 
sessor  of  a  beautiful  head  from  which  brains 
mirrored  through  two  blue  eyes. 

Of  all  the  men  Marco  loved  her  best  and 
most  truly.  She  knew  it.  She  liked  him.  But 
he  was  dull.  He  cut  no  figure  anywhere.  He 
took  no  part  in  discussions.  He  never  cited 
Dostoiewsky.  He  never  tiraded  against  the 
lack  of  understanding  of  the  people.  He  once 
angered  everybody  by  saying  that  the  people, 

55 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


the  plain  common  ordinary  people,  were  the 
creators  of  everything  worth  while.  She  hated 
him  for  saying  that.  He  had  a  way  of  his,  of 
burying  his  bushy  head  in  his  pipe  and  looking 
from  underneath  his  eyebrows,  that  angered 
her  very  much. 

He  loved  her,  he  adored  her,  and  as  time 
went  by,  he  became  more  dull.  Some  people's 
tongues  are  loosened  by  love  as  by  wine,  and 
others  are  stricken  dumb. 

Marco  lost  speech  whenever  he  faced  Fay, 
lost  it  more  and  more  as  his  love  for  the  girl 
grew. 

"What's  the  matter  with  your  Roumanian 
savage?"  friends  asked  the  girl. 

"I  don't  know.  He  is  getting  duller  every 
day,"  the  girl  answered. 

Then,  one  day,  as  Fay  and  a  party  of  friends 
planned  a  merry  evening,  Marco  flared  up  en 
thusiastically. 

4  *  Come  with  me,  somewhere." 

"Where?"  they  all  asked. 

"With  me,  to  a  place  I  know." 
56 


ALL  IN  ONE  WILD  ROUMANIAN  SONG 

And  thus  it  was  that  a  dozen  American 
young  men  and  women  descended  the  stairs  of 
Moskowitz's  cellar. 

It  was  too  early;  Moskowitz  was  not  yet 
playing.  Fay  did  not  like  the  food,  and  her 
grumbling  became  contagious.  They  all 
mocked  and  derided  Marco.  Thompson  and 
Carlisle,  both  in  love  with  Fay,  and  Mary  and 
Lucy,  both  in  love  with  the  two  men,  never 
ceased  for  a  moment  to  taunt  poor  Marco. 
And  though  he  ordered  the  best  wine,  Fay  de 
clared  that  "this  Roumanian  monstrosity  was 
the  worst  ever." 

The  painter's  eyes  became  moist ;  he  pleaded, 
but  Fay's  eyes  were  as  cold  as  steel. 

"You  are  dull,  you  are  stupid,"  she  cried. 

Then  the  music  started.  A  thousand  trip 
ping  feet  descending  lightly  from  Heaven — a 
million  voices  lifting  themselves  to  the  gods, 
the  wedding  of  everything  earthly  to  every 
thing  celestial,  the  whole  universe  dancing — 
man,  woman  and  beast,  mountains,  oceans  and 
stars — singing  the  joy  of  creation. 

57 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


It  was  music,  the  kind  of  which  Fay  never 
heard  before — interlaced  songs,  each  one  grown 
out  of  the  hearts  of  millions  of  people  through 
thousands  of  years,  songs  breathing  life,  as  dif 
ferent  from  the  music  she  had  heard  to  then  as 
a  photograph  is  to  the  object  it  tends  to  por 
tray.  The  water  going  down  hill,  the  trees  of 
the  forest  spreading  their  wings,  the  wheat  ac 
tually  swaying  like  golden  waves. 

Her  own  life  passed  before  her  as  she  heard 
the  music;  from  early  childhood  to  the  very 
minute  of  her  thought.  How  had  she  ever 
dared  to  insult  Marco? 

How  had  she  dared  bunch  him  together 
with  her  other  admirers?  She  looked  at  him 
and  her  eyes  pleaded  forgiveness,  but  Marco 
was  oblivious  to  everything. 

And  as  the  music  continued  Fay  saw 
Marco's  eyes  brighten.  Every  line  of  his  face 
became  full  with  an  inner  life  she  had  never 
seen  before  in  any  one. 

Suddenly  he  started  to  sing  a  song  as  sad  as 
the  world's  woes. 

58 


ALL  IN  ONE  WILD  ROUMANIAN  SONG 

From  the  cimbalon  rose  chords  that  spoke  of 
understanding.  No  one  dared  even  move,  lest 
it  might  disturb  the  perfect  communion  be 
tween  singer  and  accompanist.  Little  by  lit 
tle  another  soul  was  carried  in. 

How  dull  the  others  were,  sitting  at  the 
table  disputing  the  quality  of  the  food.  How 
was  she  ever  so  blind  and  stupid  as  not  to  see ! 

Marco  now  got  up  from  the  table,  put  both 
his  hands  on  the  musician's  shoulders,  and  sang 
on — and  as  he  sang  he  grew  bigger  and  bigger. 

The  place  went  wild  when  he  finished. 
Moskowitz  kissed  him,  and  Fay  could  plainly 
see  that  at  least  fifty  pairs  of  lips  longed  to 
do  likewise. 

"Marco,  Marco,  why  have  you  never  brought 
me  here  before?"  cried  Fay  in  joy,  as  she  kissed 
the  happy  man. 

And  now,  nightly  at  Moskowitz's,  a  bushy 
Roumanian  is  drinking  his  bottle  in  company 
of  a  pretty  American  girl,  who  dreams  of  the 
day  when  she  will  see  the  country  from  which 
such  songs,  and  such  men,  come. 

59 


EXPENSIVE  POVERTY 

IT  is  no  longer  permitted  to  be  poor;  still 
less  to  appear  poor.  It  is  not  yet  a  legal 
crime  but  a  social  one.  It  is  comparatively 
easy  to  evade  punishment  for  legal  crimes,  but 
punishment  for  a  social  crime  is  as  swift  as  it 
is  merciless.  No  defense  is  possible  because  the 
prosecutor  and  judge  is  invisible.  There  is  no 
defense  and  no  appeal.  No  higher  court  to  re 
verse  judgment  on  technical  or  constitutional 
grounds.  Accusation  alone  is  equivalent  to 
condemnation. 

"There  was  a  time  when  the  poor  of  the  land 
were  an  institution,  as  respectable  as  they  were 
part  of  the  scheme  which  recognized  them. 
The  poor  did  not  have  to  dress  like  the  rich, 
did  not  have  to  live  like  the  rich,  act  like  the 
rich,  and  be  buried  like  the  rich. 

"But  those  times  are  gone.  A  fifteen  dollar 
60 


EXPENSIVE  POVERTY 


a  week  clerk  is  supposed  to  dress  in  clothes  as 
expensive  as  his  superior  who  receives  four 
times  the  amount.  He  is  not  considered  "am 
bitious"  if  he  does  not  starve  himself  to  ap 
pear  spick  and  span  every  day  of  the  week. 
Sinkers  and  coffee  for  lunch  after  a  breakfast- 
less  breakfast,  to  buy  a  neat  silk  necktie.  No 
lunch  at  all  to  have  a  suit  pressed.  Dinnerless 
dinners  to  buy  new  shoes  or  a  new  hat.  The 
shoemakers  have  forgotten  how  to  put  patches 
on  shoes.  The  mothers  have  forgotten  how  to 
patch  up  a  worn-out  seat  or  a  threaded  elbow. 
It  is  no  longer  done." 

The  above  is  the  beginning  of  an  essay  on 
poverty  I  found  among  the  papers  of  the  de 
ceased  Italian  poet  Gagliano.  Where  the  im 
petus  of  thought  of  such  a  beginning  would 
have  led  him  is  difficult  to  follow.  He  never 
finished  the  essay.  I  am  inclined  to  think  that 
Gagliano  did  not  have  the  heart,  though  he  had 
the  mind,  to  pursue  the  logical  sequence  of 
thoughts  of  his  theory.  He  was  a  poet,  a  sweet 

61 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


singer,  and  he  hated  and  avoided  what  was  en 
gendered  by  bitterness. 

He  had  been  poor  so  many  years  that  it  was 
becoming  to  him.  Poverty  fitted  him  as  well 
as  his  worn  coat  and  greenish  sombrero. 
Should  Gagliano  have  suddenly  exhibited  signs 
of  prosperity  it  would  have  scandalized  every 
one. 

Daily,  for  years  his  long,  thin  legs  kicked 
open  the  door  of  the  spaghetti  join*  at  noon. 
Until  food  was  brought  by  the  old  waiter,  he 
wiped  his  eyeglasses,  stroked  his  beard  and 
brushed  back  his  long  hair  with  th<  fla*  of  his 
hand.  While  eating  he  read  a  book  01  a  maga 
zine.  His  skilled  fork  wound  the  long  paste 
round  itself  and  carried  it  automatically  to  the 
mouth  without  the  slightest  splurging  gener 
ally  attending  the  eating  of  the  Italian  na 
tional  dish.  But  it  is  not  of  Gagliano's  skilled 
spaghetti  eating  that  I  want  to  speak.  I  want 
to  tell  how  Gagliano  lost  his  job  with  Rinal- 
dini  the  banker.  It  had  kept  him  alive  for 
years.  He  had  counted  pennies,  nickels,  dimes 

62 


EXPENSIVE  POVERTY 


and  quarters  until  his  finger  tips  were  cal 
loused.  He  had  written  rhymed  advertise 
ments  and  jingles  to  pay  for  the  little  food  and 
the  few  books  in  which  better  things  were  writ 
ten  by  more  fortunate  though  not  more  tal 
ented  brothers  of  the  pen.  He  starved  with 
clock-like  regularity,  although  his  poems  ap 
peared  in  the  "better"  magazines  of  his  lan 
guage. 

Rinaldini  the  banker,  his  employer,  was  a 
bluff,  ignorant  man  who  had  won  the  confi 
dence  of  his  countrymen.  It  was  his  only  stock 
and  capital.  He  payed  interest  to  one,  from 
the  capital  of  another.  He  had  done  that  for 
years.  He  loaned  money  to  pay  the  expense 
of  Christenings,  and  great  festive  weddings. 
Most  of  the  pompous  burials  of  the  district 
were  financed  by  Signer  Rinaldini  on  a  ten  per 
cent  weekly  payment  after  a  generous  interest 
was  charged  on  the  total.  From  these  things 
and  commissions  from  undertakers,  music  lead 
ers  and  confectioners,  Rinaldini  made  a  living. 
What  other  expenses  he  incurred  was  from 

68 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


capital  deposited  in  his  bank  by  the  credulous 
customers.  Rinaldini  liked  Gagliano.  He  was 
proud  to  have  such  a  man  in  his  employ. 
Whenever  some  one  was  pleased  with  some  of 
Gagliano's  rhymes  in  the  papers  the  banker 
accepted  the  praise  good-naturedly;  and  the 
"fratellis"  of  the  different  lodges  and  societies 
to  which  he  belonged,  of  most  of  which  he  was 
the  founder  and  treasurer,  never  knew  that  an 
other  one  wrote  the  "Poesia"  they  liked  so 
much. 

When  Italy  entered  the  war  a  hundred  dif 
ferent  Italian  charities  were  trumpeted  over 
the  city.  Several  bankers  were  in  line  compet 
ing  for  the  treasureships.  Rinaldini  then 
started  a  campaign  of  his  own.  He  started  the 
work  by  giving  to  all  charities  lavishly.  If 
Postarnelli,  another  banker,  had  given  hun 
dred  dollars,  he  gave  thousand.  When  Pal- 
lorie,  one  of  the  richest  bankers  in  the  district, 
gave  thousand  dollars  to  a  charity  fund,  Rinal 
dini  strained  himself  to  double  the  amount.  It 
impressed  everybody  and  drew  customers. 

64 


EXPENSIVE  POVERTY 


Rinaldini  moved  out  of  the  Mulberry  district 
into  a  more  fashionable  one  and  began  to  en 
tertain  lavishly.  He  fitted  out  his  home  with 
costly  furniture  and  even  became  a  patron  of 
the  arts.  A  celebrated  Italian  sculptor  re 
ceived  the  commission  for  the  banker's  bust  and 
a  painter  did  him  in  lively  colors. 

At  those  entertainments,  Gagliano's  pres 
ence  was  frequently  requested.  He  wrote  out 
the  speeches  which  the  banker  delivered.  Many 
of  the  "notabiles"  were  astounded  by  the  exhi 
bition  of  so  much  learning.  Petrarc,  D'Anun- 
zio  and  Negri  furnished  the  best  lines.  They 
were  like  written  for  the  occasion.  So  much 
learning  and  so  high  a  patriotism  was  never  ex 
pected  from  Rinaldini.  A  movement  was  soon 
on  foot  to  call  the  attention  of  the  Italian  King 
to  Rinaldini's  great  devotion.  The  banker  an 
ticipated  being  ennobled  and  became  even  more 
fastidious  and  luxurious.  The  old  bachelor  be 
gan  seriously  to  think  of  wedding  bells  with 
some  lady  of  nobilitj^.  He  became  an  author- 

65 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


ity  on  art  and  literature  and  his  opinions  were 
quoted  by  newspapers. 

Gagliano,  the  poet,  was  worked  harder  and 
harder.  He  grew  bitter  and  frequently  made 
caustic  remarks.  He  also  grew  thinner  and 
thinner.  He  made  real  contributions,  money 
from  his  own  pocket,  to  the  innumerable  war 
charities.  The  prices  of  food  advanced  in  the 
restaurants. 

On  an  evening  as  the  whole  cream  of  the 
colony  was  assembled  at  Rinaldini's,  the  bank 
er,  to  make  an  impression  on  his  guests,  began 
to  brag  about  his  possessions. 

"That  chandelier  in  the  vestibule  cost  me  a 
thousand  dollars.  Yonder  carved  table  costs 
five  hundred.  Some  of  the  bric-a-brac  on  the 
mantelpiece  costs  thousands."  And,  pointing 
to  a  guitar  standing  in  a  corner  of  the  room,  he 
remarked:  "For  that  guitar  I  paid  a  hundred 
dollars." 

"That  is  not  so  much!  Mine  comes  much 
higher  than  that!"  interrupted  Gagliano 


EXPENSIVE  POVERTY 


lightly.  Every  one  turned  and  looked  at  him. 
Every  one  knew  how  poor  he  was. 

"You  see,"  Gagliano  explained,  "originally 
I  paid  for  it  only  twenty  dollars.  But  in  the 
six  years  I  worked  for  Signor  Rinaldini,  I  have 
pawned  it  every  Tuesday  and  redeemed  it 
every  Saturday  so  as  to  have  it  for  Sunday,  and 
the  interest  and  the  fixed  charge  of  twenty-five 
cents,  the  usurer  from  the  pawnshop  forces  me 
to  pay,  has  brought  up  the  cost  of  the  guitar 
to  way  beyond  a  hundred  dollars." 

Gagliano's  words  iced  the  enthusiasm  and 
admiration  for  Rinaldini.  The  poet  lost  his 
job.  Rinaldini  never  received  the  coveted 
medal.  Treasureship  of  many  societies  was 
withdrawn.  In  six  months  he  was  bankrupt. 
Gagliano  died  some  months  later. 


67 


WHY  HER  NAME  IS  MARGUERITE 
V.  L.  F.  CLEMENT 

VOILA!  Here  is  France — France  in  New 
York  and  the  France  of  to-day.  One 
could  forgive  the  Boche  all  the  crimes  he  has 
committed  but  the  one  that  he  has  robbed  the 
French  of  their  gayety,  of  their  lightness  of 
heart.  Dark  gray  has  taken  the  place  of 
happy  rose  and  green.  Sparkling  eyes  have 
been  dulled  and  the  gay  ribbons  pleated  in  the 
hair  of  women  have  disappeared.  A  small 
black  band  on  the  sleeve  tells  the  reason  why. 
One  hears  laughter  no  longer  from  the  open 
windows  and  on  the  street. 

Voila!  American  and  Canadian  soldiers 
pass  on  the  street  and  are  cheered.  Little  boys 
and  girls  shake  their  hands.  A  young  woman 
drops  her  marketing  bag,  claps  her  hands  and 
cries  "Vive  rAmerique,"  to  which  one  gallant 

68 


MARGUERITE  V.  L.  F.  CLEMENT 

boy  in  khaki  answers  with  "Vive  la  France!" 
Windows  and  doors  open.  Women  and  chil 
dren  bend  over  the  sills  as  much  as  they  dare. 
A  hundred,  a  thousand  hands  applaud,  a  hun 
dred,  a  thousand  voices  cheer,  from  a  dozen 
phonographs  "The  Marseillaise"  is  heard. 

Voila!  you  are  in  New  York,  in  the  French 
quarter,  on  Eighth  Avenue  between  Twenty- 
eighth  and  Thirty-sixth  Streets. 

In  the  evenings  the  neighborhood  still  gath 
ers  at  Clement's.  Papa  Baviele  still  holds  the 
floor,  only  he  no  longer  tells  the  stories  of  the 
Commune,  while  Blanchard  and  Clero  are  dis 
cussing  the  merits  of  a  Packard  engine  or  of  a 
Bleriot  versus  a  Curtiss  airplane. 

The  war  is  the  topic  and  Clement  speaks 
with  authority,  for  he  has  been  in  it,  in  1870. 

"We  would  have  beaten  them  then,  only  we 
had  a  sleepy  Emperor  and  a  coward  or  a 
traitor — in  the  end  it  amounts  to  the  same — 
as  a  general." 

"Pere  Clement  is  right,"  said  old  Bideaux. 
"Foch  was  born  fifty  years  too  late.  Look 

69 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


here,  how  many  of  us  are  missing?  Bernard, 
Duval,  Chuff ot,  D  enure,  Carreaux,  Henry — 
all  the  young  ones  gone  to  France.  La  Vielle 
Mamma  Clement,  a  little  more  wine — to  for 
get." 

"Where  is  Marguerite?"  Papa  Clement 
asked  his  wife. 

Marguerite,  the  young  wife  of  Clement's 
son,  Bernard,  had  been  living  with  them  since 
her  husband  returned  to  France  to  do  his  duty. 
Six  months  after  she  had  come  over  to  this 
country  with  her  widowed  father,  Bideaux,  the 
mechanician,  the  war  broke  out.  But  in  these 
six  months  she  had  loved  and  married  Bernard. 

"Ma  petite,"  he  said  to  her  on  the  second 
day  of  August,  "I  shall  go  and  see  my  consul." 
And  when  he  came  back  he  told  her,  "I  am 
going  to  fight  the  Bodies." 

And  he  went. 

She  went  to  work.  Her  nimble  fingers  and 
developed  sense  for  beauty  of  line  found  em 
ployment  in  a  dress  shop.  And  each  week  she 
sent  something  to  her  Bernard,  somewhere  in 

70 


MARGUERITE  V.  L.  F.  CLEMENT 

France,  to  supplement  the  four  sous  a  day  the 
Government  was  paying  him.  Every  evening, 
returning  from  work,  she  asked,  "Any  news?" 

Bernard  wrote  frequently  and  well.  Twice 
they  had  had  bad  news.  Wounded  at  the  Aisne. 
Wounded  on  the  Verdun  front.  "But  Mar 
guerite's  husband  won't  die  before  he  has  again 
kissed  her  and  told  her  all  about  the  savage 
Boche.  Tell  papa  I  don't  want  ever  to  see 
Hans  Seidel  at  our  table  again.  His  Socialism 
was  only  masquerade.  I  can  swear  I  saw  him 
in  one  of  the  Aisne  attacks.  We  must  learn 
not  to  forget  our  wounds  even  after  they  have 
healed." 

Hans  Seidel  had  never  left  New  York,  and 
was  still  a  frequent  guest  at  Clement's,  where 
his  Alsatian  French  amused  everybody.  But 
after  Bernard's  letter  he  was  gently  told  his 
company  was  no  longer  desired. 

"Marguerite  will  soon  be  here,  pere." 

There  was  a  ring  at  the  door.  Mamma 
Clement  ran  to  open. 

71 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


"Marguerite  Clement?"  a  voice  asked,  and  a 
uniformed  boy  stepped  into  the  room. 
"She  not  here — but  I  am  ze  father." 
And  Clement's  shaking  hands  stretched  for 
the  envelope  the  boy  held  between  his  fingers. 

"Ne  pleure  pas,  don't  cry.  A  million  sons 
of  other  mothers  have  paid  the  price.  Be 
brave." 

He  did  not  cry.    "Be  French,  quoi!" 

But  the  mother  cried.  Clement  seemed  to 
have  aged  ten  years  in  ten  minutes.  The  other 
men  present  withdrew  to  the  romotest  corners 
of  the  room.  Only  old  Bideaux  emptied  his 
glass,  muttering  a  terrible  oath. 

"He  has  sold  his  life  dearly — friends.  The 
letter  says  we  shall  soon  receive  his  Croix  de 
Guerre  and  his  Legion  d'Honneur  medal. 
What  a  son  I  had!  What  a  son  we  had!" 

"A  brave  son,"  they  all  said. 

Mamma  Clement  was  in  the  other  room  cry 
ing  softly.  The  men  tried  to  console  the  fa 
ther. 

72 


MARGUERITE  V.  L.  F.  CLEMENT 

Suddenly  they  all  stopped  talking.  Steps 
were  heard  on  the  stairway.  They  looked  one 
at  the  other. 

"That's  Marguerite's  step,"  said  her  father. 

The  crying  of  the  mother  ceased.  Was  it 
because  she  realized  the  other  woman's  pain? 
Was  it  because  she  wanted  to  be  brave,  or  be 
cause  she  wanted  to  postpone  the  news? 

The  men  regrouped  themselves  around  the 
table.  A  key  was  turned  in  the  latch.  The 
door  opened  wide  and  radiantly  Marguerite 
floated  into  the  room. 

"Bonsoir,  papa,  Bonsoir,  mes-amis.  Good 
news!  Very  good  news!" 

She  kissed  every  one  present  as  she  spread 
a  newspaper  on  the  table. 

"Yesterday  the  Bulgars  asked  for  peace,  to 
day  St.  Quentin  is  French  again." 

She  took  her  father's  hand  and  started  to 
dance. 

"What's  the  matter,  quoi?  Why  don't  you 
dance?  Come  quick,  the  Marseillaise — Allons 

enfants  de  3 a  patrie " 

73 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


But  no  one  moved.  Mamma  Clement  came 
out  from  her  room.  "Oh,  Marguerite!"  she 
wanted  to  cry,  but  checked  herself  in  presence 
of  so  much  exuberance. 

"We  can't  dance,  Marguerite;  it's — after 
ten  o'clock — it's  New  York.  People  want  to 
sleep." 

"Ah!  voila!  you  are  old,  all  of  you,  that's  the 


reason." 


A  group  of  boys  passed  in  the  street,  sing 
ing.  Marguerite  threw  open  the  window,  ap 
plauded  and  yelled  at  the  top  of  her  voice 
"Bravo!"  And  the  gayer  she  grew  the  sadder 
the  men  looked.  It  made  their  situation  ever 
so  harder. 

"Sure,  you  drink  wine  all  alone — give  me 
some,  too — and  who  gives  me  a  glass?  Oh,  I 
want  to  be  happy — the  war  will  soon  end.  The 
Boche  gets  his  due.  Why  do  you  sit  like  un 
dertakers?" 

She  had  one  look  at  all  of  them.  It  sobered 
her. 

74 


MARGUERITE  V.  L.  F.  CLEMENT 

"It  is  about  Bernard.  What  is  it?  Come, 
tell  me,  what  it  is." 

None  present  dared  say  a  word.  They  all 
stood  up.  Her  thin  voice  had  changed  to  a 
deep  alto.  Her  frivolous  little  head  suddenly 
became  as  stern  as  the  image  of  vengeance. 

Her  father,  old  Bideaux,  was  the  first  to 
recover. 

"Give  her  the  letter,  Clement." 

In  a  glance  she  took  in  all  the  contents. 
Bernard  was  dead.  The  rest  was  not  impor 
tant. 

Her  eyes  closed.  Her  muscles  stiffened  as 
she  gripped  the  edge  of  the  table.  It  looked 
as  though  she  was  going  to  faint.  She  re 
mained  so  for  a  few  minutes,  then  she  threw 
her  head  back  and  with  all  her  strength  she 
yelled  at  the  top  of  her  voice : 

"Vive  la  France!  Vive  la  France!  Vive  la 
France!" 

And  the  mother  and  the  father  of  the  dead 
soldier  repeated  the  cry  with  tears  in  their  eyes, 

75 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


as  loudly  as  they  could,  to  dull  the  edge  of  their 
cutting  pain,  to  drown  their  sorrow. 

"You  said,  Bideaux,  I  had  a  brave  son.  But 
how  much  braver  is  your  daughter!" 

"What  is  your  name,  please?"  Mr.  Lauders 
asked  the  young  Frenchwoman  in  mourning 
applying  for  the  position  of  designer  in  his 
dressmaking  shop. 

"My  name  is  Marguerite  V.  L.  F.  Clement." 

"Full  name,  please?" 

"Marguerite  Vive  la  France  Clement " 

And  every  time  Marguerite's  pain  is  too 
sharp  to  bear  she  cries  out:  "Vive  la  France!" 

It's  now  more  than  four  years  since  the 
Boche  invaded  New  York  through  the  French 
quarter.  Gray  and  black  are  the  dominant 
colors  of  what  was  the  most  joyous  district  of 
our  city. 


76 


LULEIKA,  THE  RICH  WIDOW 

YOU  hear  people  talk  about  the  disadvan 
tages  of  living  in  New  York.  Person 
ally,  I  cannot  think  of  greater  happiness  than 
being  in  this  great  metropolis,  if  only  for  the 
reason  that  I  can  be  all  over  Europe  in  one 
night.  Five  cents  carfare  lands  you  in  the 
French  district.  Five  more  minutes  reading 
of  the  "Subway  Sun"  lands  you  in  Hungary; 
from  whence  you  can  tramp  in  fifteen  minutes 
to  Italy  or  Greece  or  Turkey,  as  the  spirit 
moves  you  or  inclination  dictates.  You  can 
eat  your  breakfast  in  a  Russian  restaurant  on 
East  Fifth  Street,  have  caviar  and  Bolshevik 
talk;  go  for  lunch  in  China,  on  Mott  Street, 
where  they  will  serve  you  tea  grown  on  the 
highest  mountain  of  Asia;  for  dinner  you  can 
have  your  choice  between  Persian,  French, 
Hindu  or  Greek  menus,  and  still  have  the 
cuisines  of  a  dozen  other  foreign  nationalities 

77 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


to  choose  from  if  you  are  alive  the  next  morn 
ing. 

And  now,  in  case  you  ever  intend  going 
down  to  the  Syrian  Quarter  for  supper  and 
atmosphere,  I  will  acquaint  you  with  the  story 
of  Luleika,  as  it  was  told  to  me  by  Malouf 
the  jeweler,  who  is  a  Mohammedan  gentleman, 
born  in  Constantinople.  Malouf  believes  in  the 
glory  of  Allah.  His  face  is  as  dry  as  smoked 
parchment,  and  he  touches  the  ground  with  his 
forehead  twice  a  day,  at  sunrise  and  sundown, 
as  it  is  commanded  in  the  Koran.  Malouf 
lives  on  Washington  Street,  which  is  at  a 
stone's  throw  from  the  Statue  of  Liberty  in  the 
Bay  of  New  York. 

"And  it  is  written  in  the  Koran:  Tor  who 
soever  sells  his  soul  for  gain,  shall  suffer  in  his 
flesh,  and  whosoever  sells  his  flesh  for  gain  shall 
suffer  in  his  soul.' 

"But  you,  my  listener,  are  either  a  Christian 
Giaour  or  a  Yehudi  Kepek,  and  know  noth 
ing  about  the  Koran. 

78 


LULEIKA,  THE  RICH  WIDOW 

"And  Luleika  was  young  then,  in  her  twen 
ty-fifth  year,  and  the  Koran  was  only  a  name 
to  her  and  not  the  fountain  of  wisdom  which  it 
really  is. 

"She  was  young  and  beautiful  when  her 
brother,  AH,  who  was  a  rich  dealer  in  rugs, 
brought  her  here,  to  this  pork-eating  country. 
Her  brother  was  very  proud  of  her.  Not  one 
woman  in  a  thousand  could  wear  a  diamond- 
studded  comb  in  her  hair  as  well  as  Luleika 
could;  not  one  in  a  million  could  carmine  her 
nails  as  well;  and  not  another  in  the  whole 
world  could  make  the  lines  of  her  mouth  har 
monize  so  well  with  the  curves  of  her  eyebrows. 

"I  loved  Luleika.  But  I  was  poor  and  her 
brother  was  rich,  and  richer  yet  were  the 
friends  he  had.  So  Ali  set  up  a  store,  not  far 
from  the  Christian  church  around  the  corner, 
in  which  he  sold  rugs  to  the  rich  of  this  country. 
And  in  the  store  he  put  up  a  little  cage  in 
which  sat  Luleika  like  an  imprisoned  bird. 
Men  came  to  buy  rugs  and  smile  at  the  girL 
Ali  became  richer  every  day.  As  his  gold  piled 

79 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


up  he  forgot  the  good  teachings  of  the  holy 
book  and  ate  pork  and  drank  wine.  And 
Luleika  did  as  he  did. 

"Then  my  mother  sent  word  through  Mus- 
tapha  Hogea,  the  priest,  that  I  should  come 
home  that  she  might  see  me  before  joining  her 
father  in  Allah.  And  I  answered:  "I  have 
bread  here  a-plenty,  and  there  is  a  woman  my 
heart  holds  my  eyes  on,  and  you  may  die  in 
peace,  for  I  shall  follow  the  words  of  the  Koran 
and  end  my  daily  prayers  with  Allah  il  Allah, 
Mohammed  rassul  Allah. 

"She  must  have  died  peacefully. 

"Daily,  under  some  excuse  or  other,  I  went 
to  see  Luleika.  She  changed  her  dress  little 
by  little  as  she  learned  the  language  of  this 
country.  Her  beautifully  wroven  bournous 
was  replaced  with  a  white  waist  which  looked 
as  if  made  out  of  tissue  paper,  and  her  heavy 
pantaloons,  cut  from  goods  brought  on  a 
camel's  back  from  Damascus,  were  exchanged 
for  a  flimsy  skirt,  the  like  of  which  is  worn  by 
the  women  of  the  land  of  the  Francs. 

80 


LULEIKA,  THE  RICH  WIDOW 

"And  one  day,  when  I  no  longer  could  wait, 
I  spoke  to  her  of  my  love.  She  listened  to  the 
end  and  then  she  said:  'Thou  art  young  and 
strong.  A  woman  could  love  thee.  But  thou 
art  poor,  and  I  am  afraid  of  poverty.  I  shall 
therefore  marry  Kurguz  Mehmed,  the  partner 
of  my  brother  Ali.' 

"  'But  Mehmed  is  dreadfully  old!'  I  cried. 

£  *I  wish  he  were  older,'  she  told  me. 

"Luleika  married  Kurguz  Mehmed.  He 
was  so  old  he  could  not  walk  without  a  cane. 
Kurguz  had  become  very  rich  in  this  country, 
rich  and  dissolute.  He  was  the  shame  of  his 
people. 

"Ali  knew,  Luleika  knew,  yet  she  married 
him,  because  he  was  rich. 

"And  I,  I  worked  myself  tired  and  cried  my 
self  to  sleep.  Twice  the  soul  of  my  mother 
stayed  my  hand  from  murder.  Thousands  of 
rings  and  brooches  in  silver  and  gold  I  have 
made  for  men  and  women,  and  in  them  I  have 
engraved  all  the  tortures  of  my  soul  and  flesh. 
I  have  put  sapphires  and  rubies  in  the  eyes  of 

81 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


the  engraved  serpents  on  the  brooches  and  pale 
green  topazes  in  the  mouths  of  the  carved  mon 
sters  on  the  rings  I  made. 

"And  every  day  I  took  an  oath  afresh  never 
to  see  her  again. 

"Then  one  day  her  last  words  to  me  rang  in 
my  ears:  'I  wish  he  were  older.' 

"But  Kurguz  Mehmed  got  stronger  and 
younger  every  day  now.  I  saw  him  pass  the 
street  without  leaning  on  his  cane. 

"Five  years  later,  one  morning,  Luleika  sud 
denly  appeared  at  the  door  of  my  place. 

"  'That  you  make  for  me  a  brooch,  Malouf/ 
she  said,  'a  brooch  as  beautiful  as  you  ever 
made/ 

"I  looked  at  her.  My  heart  grew  cold,  my 
mouth  burned.  Was  this  the  same  Luleika? 
She  was  still  beautiful,  but  her  flesh  had  lost 
its  firmness,  and  the  corners  of  her  mouth 
drooped. 

"And  as  I  worked  at  her  brooch  I  cooled  the 
white-heated  golden  wires  with  my  tears,  yet  I 
dared  not  speak  to  her  of  my  love,  for  she  was 

82 


LULEIKA,  THE  RICH  WIDOW 

the  wife  of  another  man.  She  must  have 
known  I  still  loved  her ;  women  always  do. 

"Kurguz  Mehmed  lived  on  and  grew  richer 
every  day.  He  lived  on  five  more  years,  and 
then  five  more  and  then  some  more.  The  last 
two  years  he  lay,  with  no  use  of  limbs  and  eyes 
on  his  bed,  and  allowed  not  that  she  leave  him 
alone.  He  was  still  her  master. 

"Then  he  died. 

"She  was  left  alone  and  rich,  oh  very  rich. 
Every  rug  sold  in  this  country  had  added  some 
thing  to  her  riches.  But  she  was  no  longer 
young  when  Kurguz  died.  She  was  no  longer 
young  and  she  knew  it. 

"My  soul  was  dead  to  her.  My  flesh  burnt 
to  cold  cinders.  She  came  for  a  ring  one  day. 
I  spoke  nothing  at  all  to  her  save  of  the  ring 
— nothing  of  love. 

"But  there  were  other  men,  men  of  our  peo 
ple  who  have  come  here  in  the  last  fifteen  years. 
Young  men  wooed  her,  swore  love  to  her.  She 
never  believed.  Was  she  not  ten  times  as  rich 

83 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


as  Kurguz  was  when  she  married  him  for  his 
wealth  ? 

"What  she  herself  had  done  was  the  measure 
by  which  she  weighed  what  others  may  do.  She 
would  have  believed  the  young  men,  ten  years 
ago,  should  Kurguz  have  died  when  she  ex 
pected  him  to.  But  now,  her  mirror  told  her : 
'What  else  do  men  see  to  love  in  thee  except 
thy  gold?' 

"As  she  grew  richer  she  believed  still  less. 
She  bedecked  herself  with  the  costliest  jewels, 
yet  she  always  knew  they  wouldn't  bring  back 
youth. 

"Go  now,  you  my  listener,  to  the  store  of 
Luleika,  Kurguz  Mehmed's  rich  widow.  Buy 
rugs.  The  richer  she  will  become  the  greater 
her  punishment  will  be.  It  will  poison  her 
mind  and  poison  the  souls  of  her  wooers. 

"Because  her  sin  was  so  great  Allah  pro 
longed  the  life  of  even  so  great  a  sinner  as 
Kurguz  Mehmed. 

"I  shall  live  my  days  engraving  this  sad 
84 


LULEIKA,  THE  RICH  WIDOW 

story  in  gold  and  silver.  Believers  and  infidels, 
rich  and  poor,  in  the  thousands  are  near  it 
without  knowing." 

Malouf  finished  his  story.  For  the  time  be 
ing  I  thought  myself  somewhere  in  the  Orient 
— in  Constantinople  or  Salonica,  where  roving 
packs  of  dogs  howl  day  and  night  and  no  soul 
cares  about  the  infernal  noise — somewhere  near 
Turkish  giamies  topped  by  the  crescent  moon 
— somewhere  where  men  sit  with  their  feet  in 
the  gutter  and  smoke  from  long  pipes,  while 
veiled  women  walk  near  the  walls. 

But  when  I  walked  out  of  Malouf  s  store, 
boys  were  just  lighting  the  paper  lanterns  for 
a  block  dance.  Across  the  street  hung  a  big 
war  poster  with  famous  sayings  penned  under 
neath. 

As  if  lit  by  a  huge  flying  glow-worm,  the 
torch  of  the  Lady  of  Liberty  in  bronze  pointed 
to  the  flitting  stars.  Dark-eyed  men  and 
women  returned  home,  to  the  Orient  from  the 
Occident.  Night  was  coming. 

85 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


A  few  men  on  the  street,  facing  the  setting 
sun,  bowed  very  low  as  they  said  their  short 
prayers  to  Allah,  who  is  here,  there  and  every 
where. 


86 


BECAUSE  COHEN  COULD  NEITHER 
READ  NOR  WRITE 

ISAAC   COHEN  came  from  Russia  ten 
years  ago.    He  left  there  his  wife  and  two 
children  and  came  here,  where  he  had  a  rich 
uncle  who  was  in  the  real  estate  business. 

His  uncle  took  him  to  his  home,  had  him 
rest  up,  bought  him  a  new  suit  of  clothes  and 
began  to  Americanize  the  nephew  by  telling 
him  that  he  would  have  to  make  a  living. 

"Did  you  believe,  uncle,  that  I  have  come 
here  to  watch  my  beard  grow?  I,  who  have  a 
wife  and  children  to  support,"  Cohen  an 
swered. 

The  answer  pleased  his  uncle  very  much,  be 
cause  he  knew  how  easily  some  forget  their 
duties  when  at  a  distance. 

"Isaac,  I  shall  try  my  best  to  get  you  some 
thing.  Let's  call  in  your  aunt  and  ask  her 
advice." 

87 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


Aunt  Sarah  came  into  the  room,  and  folding 
her  bejewelled  hands,  she  began  to  think. 

"The  best  would  be,  my  husband,  if  your 
nephew  would  tell  us  at  what  he  would  like  to 
w^ork,"  she  finally  said. 

"Well,  Isaac,  what  do  you  say?" 

Isaac  Cohen's  face  lit  up.  He  had  his 
dreams,  like  all  mortals.  His  greatest  desire 
was  to  be  a  beadle  in  a  synagogue. 

"Nothing  easier,"  the  uncle  explained.  "In 
the  synagogue  of  our  own  congregation  such  a 
position  is  now  vacant." 

And  the  uncle  phoned  up  to  the  President 
of  the  congregation,  who  was  delighted  to  im 
mediately  receive  the  applicant  at  his  home. 

Was  Isaac  Cohen  happy?  Was  there  ever 
a  happier  man  than  he  was  as  he  walked  with 
his  uncle  from  Second  Avenue  to  Rivington 
Street? 

During  the  whole  voyage  he  had  dreamed 
of  getting  a  position  as  a  beadle — and  now, 
suddenly,  it  was  being  realized.  The  silken 
blouses  he  saw  spread  out  between  bunches  of 

88 


COHEN  COULD  NEITHER  READ  NOR  WRITE 

radishes  and  beets  on  the  pushcarts  of  Orchard 
Street  were  now  almost  within  his  grasp.  He 
would  buy  one  for  his  wife  with  the  first  money 
he  earned.  On  another  pushcart  were  toys, 
leftovers,  seconds  from  last  Christmas.  He 
would  buy  a  horse  for  his  little  son.  All  those 
luxurious  things  he  saw  in  the  windows  of  the 
stores  were  to  be  for  him  also.  And  a  three- 
room  flat,  with  water  from  faucets,  a  dumb 
waiter,  and  other  new  world  wonders. 

A  beadle !  Was  there  ever  a  higher  position 
in  life? 

"Isaac,"  his  uncle  suddenly  cut  in  on  his 
dreams,  "if  Mr.  Rosen,  the  President,  asks  you 
how  much  you  want,  you  should  answer  that 
you  will  be  satisfied  with  the  same  amount  as 
the  former  beadle  received."  And  before 
Cohen  had  time  to  say  a  word  the  uncle  con 
tinued — "and  here  we  are — second  floor  front. 
Let's  hope  for  the  best." 

"Amen,"  said  Cohen. 

Mr.  Rosen,  the  President  of  the  Odessa  Syn 
agogue,  was  a  very  fine  old  gentleman.  He 

89 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


had  come  to  New  York  twenty  years  before 
Cohen,  and  prospered  in  the  insurance  busi 
ness.  He  was  a  member  of  at  least  twenty 
societies.  Half  of  his  income  was  paid  in  dues 
to  the  organizations  to  which  he  belonged. 
Half  of  the  Jewish  population  were  his 
"brothers."  Of  course  they  were  all  insured 
through  him. 

Brother  Rosen  received  Cohen  very  nicely, 
and  Isaac  Cohen  made  a  very  good  impression 
on  him. 

"A  nephew  of  yours  is  certainly  a  very  de 
sirable  asset  to  our  community,  I  am  sure, 
brother  Cohen.  The  position  of  beadle  in  our 
synagogue  is  a  very  honorable  one." 

The  President  then  turned  his  attention  to 
the  applicant  who  was  nonplussed  by  the  riches 
of  the  house.  Velvet  on  every  chair.  Big  brass 
chandeliers  and  a  world  of  photographs  depict 
ing  the  host  in  all  his  glory  as  President  of 
twenty  lodges.  Rosen  watched  the  effect  on 
the  newcomer,  then  he  spoke. 

"You  could  enter  upon  your  duties  even  to- 
90 


COHEN  COULD  NEITHER  READ  NOR  WRITE 

day.  I  am  sure  you  know  all  about  them.  The 
beadle  about  to  leave  us  will  instruct  you  and 
show  you  all  the  details  of  the  work.  He  is  a 
very  good  man,  old  Reb  Baruch,  Mr.  Cohen, 
only  we  always  had  trouble  with  him  on  ac 
count  of  his  handwriting.  You  know  he  has 
to  enter  in  the  book  names  and  dates  of  births, 
marriages  and  deaths.  Well,  nobody  can  read 
his  handwriting,  not  even  himself;  and  on  ac 
count  of  this  we  had  a  lot  of  trouble." 

Isaac  Cohen  paled.  He  almost  fainted 
there. 

"What  is  the  trouble?"  the  two  men  asked. 

"I  can't — write — never  learned — to  write," 
Isaac  stammered. 

And  so  the  dream  of  being  the  beadle  of  the 
Odessa  Synagogue  or  any  other  synagogue 
was  shattered. 

On  returning  to  his  uncle's  home  he  was 
given  a  lecture  by  his  aunt.  He  had  to  make 
a  living.  The  long  and  short  of  it  was  that 
they  gave  him  a  twenty-dollar  bill  and  told  him 
to  go  and  shift  for  himself. 

91 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


A  week  later  Isaac  Cohen  was  peddling 
matches,  garters  and  suspenders  on  Hester 
Street.  A  month  later  he  was  the  owner  of  a 
pushcart  on  which  he  sold  stockings,  combs 
and  toothbrushes.  At  night  he  learned  knee- 
pants  making.  A  year  later  he  had  a  little 
shop  and  two  machines  were  working  for  him. 

His  family  was  brought  over  here,  and  the 
wife  helped  what  she  could  in  the  shop,  living 
in  the  rear  of  the  store.  It  was  not  as  easy  as 
it  sounds  when  read,  but  two  years  later  ten 
machines  were  grinding  out  knickerbockers  in 
Isaac  Cohen's  factory.  Ten  years  after  his  ar 
rival  in  New  York  the  firm  of  Cohen  &  Co.  was 
known  as  the  biggest  of  its  kind.  Two  fac 
tories  in  Brownsville,  one  in  New  York,  four 
hundred  machines  in  all  and  twenty  travelling 
salesmen  selling  his  wares. 

But  he  had  never  forgiven  his  uncle  and 
aunt  for  having  so  abruptly  turned  him  out  of 
their  house,  for  not  having  helped  him  realize 
his  dream  over  here,  and  assisted  him  until  he 
learned  how  to  write. 

92 


COHEN  COULD  NEITHER  READ  NOR  WRITE 

One  day  old  Mr.  Rosen  suddenly  remem 
bered  to  ask  Brother  Cohen  about  the  nephew. 

"Why,  Mr.  Rosen,  don't  you  know?  He  is 
the  firm  Isaac  Cohen  &  Co." 

"He,  the  same  fellow?"  Rosen  asked  as 
tounded. 

Cohen  did  not  care  to  say  much  about  him, 
and  old  Rosen  understood  something  was 
wrong  between  the  two. 

Early  next  morning  Mr.  Rosen  went  to  see 
Isaac  Cohen  at  his  office.  The  rich  manufac 
turer  recognized  him  immediately.  Before 
long  he  agreed  to  take  a  policy  of  $25,000  from 
Mr.  Rosen's  insurance  company.  But  when 
the  old  man  gave  him  the  application  to  sign 
Isaac  Cohen  said: 

"What  is  that?" 

"An  application,  Mr.  Cohen — just  write 
down  your  name — you  know — here  at  the  bot 
tom " 

"But,  Mr.  Rosen,  if  I  had  ever  learned  to 
write  I  would  be  a  beadle  in  a  synagogue  to 
day." 

93 


THE  MARRIAGE  BROKER'S 
DAUGHTER 

IF  you  don't  know  Mr.  Leib  Aaronson,  per 
mit  me  to  introduce  him.  Leib  Aaronson 
is  the  marriage  broker  of  Harlem.  He  was  in 
the  "Schatchen"  business  in  Harlem  when 
there  were  only  two  synagogues  for  the  whole 
community  and  both  of  them  were  half  empty 
even  on  holidays.  They  were  built  on  specu 
lation  with  an  eye  to  the  future  development 
of  the  section.  Such  ancient  residenceship  in 
Harlem  cannot  be  boasted  by  many,  and  it  is 
therefore  regarded  with  great  respect.  It  is 
Mayflowery,  so  to  speak. 

Leib  Aaronson's  couples  have  grandchildren 
now,  and  he  keeps  track  of  all  of  them  as  fu 
ture  prospects.  In  his  notebook  he  has  three 
divisions — Men,  Women  and  Widows.  A 
three-days-old  boy  is  entered  in  the  section 

94 


THE  MARRIAGE  BROKER'S  DAUGHTER 

Men,  with  date  of  birth  and  fortune  of  parents ; 
and  when  one  of  his  couples,  the  Abrahams, 
invite  him  to  the  christening  of  their  daughter, 
he  enters  the  little  child  in  the  section  Women. 
Near  each  name  are  figures  which  Mr.  Aaron- 
son  changes  frequently  in  the  course  of  years. 
If  the  figures  are  near  a  name  in  the  Men  sec 
tion,  it  means  a  dowry  he  is  worthy  of.  Fig 
ures  near  the  name  of  a  woman  mean  what 
dowry  her  father  is  able  to  give.  A  line  across 
the  whole  stands  for  death,  marriage  or — and 
for  this  last  act  Mr.  Aaronson  is  always  very 
angry — love-marriage  for  which  no  fee  was  de 
livered. 

Should  Mr.  Aaronson  hear  that  Mr.  Gold 
berg  made  a  pile  of  money  on  some  real  estate 
transaction,  the  figures  near  Miss  Sady  Gold 
berg  are  raised  accordingly.  When  Baruch 
Levinsohn  was  bankrupt  the  ten  thousand  dol 
lars  dowry  marked  for  his  daughter  on  the  mar 
riage  broker's  notebook  dwindled  to  almost 
nothing — just  enough  for  a  tailor,  or  lucky  if 
she  could  get  anything  with  it. 

95 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


That  little  notebook  of  Leib  Aaronson  con 
tains  the  history  of  all  the  Harlem  fortunes; 
and  the  lines  drawn  across — as  they  occurred 
more  frequently  in  the  last  few  years,  and 
Aaronson  is  not  yet  a  rich  man  from  brokerage 
fees — stand  for  only  one  thing ;  the  moderniza 
tion  of  Harlem ;  the  love  matches  Mr.  Aaron- 
son  is  so  much  against. 

Now  that  I  have  acquainted  you  with  the 
marriage  broker  and  his  methods,  I  will  tell 
you  the  story  of  his  daughter. 

A  more  beautiful  girl  than  Leah  Aaronson 
was  never  seen  in  Harlem.  Even  while  a  child 
the  neighborhood  called  her  "Beautiful  Leah"; 
"two  eyes  like  big  prunes,  lips  like  cherries, 
and  cheeks  like  a  red  apple,"  was  the  verdict 
of  the  fruit  man  on  the  corner. 

And  a  more  dutiful  daughter  never  lived. 
She  almost  never  attended  any  of  the  parties. 
Her  mother  was  an  invalid,  so  she  attended  to 
everything  about  the  apartment.  It  was  al 
ways  spick  and  span.  Her  father  invited  peo 
ple  to  his  home  to  talk  business,  and  just  to 

96 


TIJE  MARRIAGE  BROKER'S  DAUGHTER 

make  them  feel  at  home  that  old-time  samovar 
was  set  on  the  table.  And  did  the  brass  shine? 
Did  it?  Why,  the  whole  house  was  kept  so 
clean  one  could  pass  a  white  handkerchief  over 
the  floor  and  not  find  a  speck  of  dust  on  it. 

Her  own  dress,  her  mother's  old  black  silk 
gown  and  her  father's  clothes,  were  always  like 
just  brought  home  from  the  tailor.  It  was  all 
Leah's  work. 

But  all  that  did  not  help  Leah  to  get  a  hus 
band.  She  was  nowhere  on  her  father's  book. 
She  was  already  sixteen,  and  her  father  had 
never  given  a  thought  to  her  future  Why 
should  he?  There  was  no  fee  in  it. 

Then  something  happened. 

Leib  Aaronson  had  invited  Abraham  Gold 
berg  to  his  home  for  tea  and  arranged  that  Mrs. 
Fahler  should  casually  come  in  to  see  Mrs. 
Aaronson!  Mrs.  Fahler  had  inherited  an  in 
surance  policy  and  two  houses  from  her  dead 
husband. 

But  when  Abraham  Goldberg  saw  Leah  it 
almost  spoiled  the  match  with  the  widow.  It 

97 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


took  three  months  to  get  the  deal  through,  and 
then  only  when  Goldberg  was  on  the  verge  of 
bankruptcy. 

"When  Goldberg  comes  to  see  me,  I  don't 
want  you  to  be  much  around,  Leah,  or  you  will 
spoil  the  deal.  It's  four  hundred  dollars,  you 
understand !" 

Leah  understood.  Four  hundred  dollars 
was  a  great  fortune. 

But  when  was  she  to  get  married?  The 
invalid  mother  thought  of  that  many  a  time, 
and  spoke  about  it  to  her  husband. 

"In  about  two  years  from  now,  Dora  Sum 
mer  will  be  ready;  she  is  fifteen  now.  By  that 
time  Rabinowitz's  son  will  just  come  out  of 
college  and  will  need  money  to  establish  him 
self — so  it  will  be  a  sure  deal.  My  fee  will  be 
about  two  thousand  dollars.  Summer,  the 
butcher,  is  making  money  so  fast  he  can't  count 
it.  Then,  I  will  not  forget  my  daughter," 
Leib  Aaronson  explained. 

"Yes,  Leib,  but  suppose " 


THE  MARRIAGE  BROKER'S  DAUGHTER 

"That  can't  be,  woman.  Dora  Summer  will 
not  make  a  love  match;  she's  cross-eyed." 

"I  did  not  mean  that.  But  suppose  Rabino- 
witz  gets  on  his  feet  himself — you  know  your 
self  what  good  family  he  comes  from — will  he 
then  let  his  own  son  marry  a  butcher's  daugh 
ter?" 

"Suppose  nothing!  A  butcher  in  America 
is  as  good  as  a  rabbi  if  he  has  money.  Believe 
me,  Summer  will  give  all  he  has  for  a  doctor 
as  a  husband  for  his  cross-eyed  daughter." 

It  was  all  so  certain,  as  Mrs.  Aaronson  later 
on  explained  to  Leah,  that  the  girl  began  to 
look  at  Dora  Summer  as  her  benefactress. 
Dora  was  a  walking  dowry  for  her.  The  whole 
Aaronson  household  was  interested  in  Dora's 
welfare  and  in  her  fast  growing  fortune. 

Aaronson  made  some  money,  a  small  fee 
here  and  there,  while  waiting  for  the  big  deal 
to  get  ripe — but  that  time  was  not  to  be. 

Cross-eyed  Dora  met  a  cousin  from  Phila 
delphia  and  married  him  just  when  Rabino- 
witz's  son  obtained  his  degree.  And  to  spoil 

99 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


every  other  plan,  this  young  fool  actually  mar 
ried  a  Christian  girl  he  had  known  in  college. 

Leah  was  eighteen.  She  decided  to  look  out 
for  herself. 

There  wTas  a  young  bookkeeper,  a  brother 
of  her  only  girl  friend,  Fanny  Shuman.  He 
was  nice  to  look  at.  He  was  also  very  ambi 
tious.  After  she  had  met  him  at  the  Shumans' 
house  he  fairly  invited  himself  for  a  Sunday 
evening  at  the  Aaronsons'.  Fanny  Shuman 
whispered  in  Leah's  ear  "catch  him.  I  hate 
Gussy  Schwartz." 

Things  went  on  pretty  well  but  slowly. 
Leah  arranged  and  timed  the  visits  of  the 
young  man  in  such  a  way  that  he  should  come 
when  her  father  was  absent.  Yet  on  the  third 
week  Leib  Aaronson  met  the  visitor. 

"Hello,  Isaac  Shuman!  Look  what  a  big 
man  he  is!  How  old  are  you,  now?" 

"Twenty-four,  Mr.  Aaronson." 

"Twenty-four!  Wait — I  think  you  are 
older."  And  out  he  took  that  fatal  little  note- 

100 


THE  MARRIAGE  BRQKEft'S 

book.  "You  will  be  twenty-six,  my  boy,  next 
month." 

After  a  few  minutes'  silence,  Leib  Aaron- 
son,  the  marriage  broker,  said  to  his  daughter. 
"Make  the  samovar  and  leave  us  alone,  please. 
I  have  something  to  talk  to  Mr.  Shuman." 

Leah  trembled  and  cried  as  she  went  to  the 
kitchen.  When  she  returned  to  the  front  room 
she  heard  her  father  say  to  the  young  man: 

"Fanny  is  nearly  twenty-five.  She  has  to 
marry.  Without  a  dowry — it's  a  sin  unto  Is 
rael.  She  is  your  sister!" 

Leah  cried.  But  Leib  Aaronson  could  not 
lose  a  double  fee.  Besides  the  dire  need, 
Aaronson  was  also  urged  by  professional  pride 
to  turn  such  a  clever  deal  and  make  the  same 
money  pay  a  double  fee. 

Gussy  Schwartz's  dowry  was  four  thousand 
dollars.  Out  of  this  money  Isaac  Shuman  gave 
one  thousand  toward  his  sister's  dowry,  who 
was  married  through  Aaronson  to  a  newly  es 
tablished  paper  box  manufacturer.  Both  mar 
riages  took  place  on  the  same  day.  This  was 

101 


IKJST  IDF  NEW  YORK 


some  inducement  to  the  young  manufacturer 
of  paper  boxes  travelling  on  thin  ice  at  his 
bank.  It  cut  the  wedding  expenses  in  half. 

The  few  hundred  dollars  Aaronson  got  as 
fees  from  that  deal  just  put  the  family  over 
the  holy  days. 

Midwinter  found  Leah  acquainted  with  a 
nice  young  fellow  who  studied  dentistry  in  the 
day  time  and  worked  as  a  waiter  at  night.  He 
was  not  from  the  district,  consequently  nowhere 
in  her  father's  notebook.  He  had  already  gone 
so  far  as  to  kiss  Leah's  hand,  although  she  said 
"Please  don't,"  when  Aaronson  got  hold  of  him 
quite  accidentally  at  Shuman's  house.  Aaron- 
son  always  visited  his  couples  frequently  the 
first  year  of  their  marriage.  Back  of  his  mind 
he  had  a  notion  that  he  guaranteed  his  sales 
for  a  year,  as  are  some  dollar  watches. 

In  two  weeks  the  future  D.  D.  S.  was  con 
vinced  by  the  marriage  broker  that  marriage 
was  a  more  honorable  profession  than  night 
work  in  a  restaurant,  and  the  deal  was  clinched. 
For  a  year's  board  and  lodging  and  a  promise 

102 


THE  MARRIAGE  BROKER'S  DAUGHTER 

of  one  thousand  dollars  when  the  young  man 
should  finish  his  studies,  Schwartz  bought  a 
doctor  for  his  second  daughter.  There  was 
some  argument  as  to  the  fee.  Aaronson 
claimed  that  a  year's  board  was  worth  $1,000, 
consequently  they  owed  him  brokerage  on 
$2,000.  But  it  was  all  settled  amiably. 

The  Schatchen  had  to  buy  a  new  coat  for 
himself.  Rent  was  also  overdue  and  he  had  no 
cash. 

Leah  was  twenty-one.  Leah  was  twenty- 
two,  and  Leah  was  twenty-three.  And  the  best 
husbands  of  the  district  were  given  away  by 
her  father  to  other  girls ;  one  for  two  months' 
rent,  one  for  a  winter  coat,  one  for  a  long  over 
due  bill  at  the  grocers'. 

Leah's  cheeks  were  now  a  little  pale,  her  lips 
a  little  drawn.  As  the  shoemaker's  children 
walk  barefooted,  so  was  Leah  left  without  a 
husband  because  her  father  was  a  marriage 
broker.  There  was  not  much  hope  for  a  dowry. 
The  best  matches  fizzled  out  because  of  that 
modern  institution — love.  It  was  Aaronson's 

103 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


greatest  enemy.  No  matter  how  much  he  com- 
batted  it  by  saying  that  all  love  matches  were 
failures,  love  matches  multiplied  daily. 

A  new  element  invaded  old  Harlem.  Men 
without  reverence  for  old  customs.  People 
whose  antecedents  nobody  knew.  They  lit  no 
candles  on  Friday  night  and  rode  in  cars  on 
Saturday.  Girls  and  young  men  walked  arm- 
in-arm  on  the  street  and  laughed  aloud  im 
modestly. 

Aaronson  complained  bitterly.  His  time- 
honored  profession  was  no  longer  needed. 

"Leib,  what  about  our  daughter?" 

"Bother  with  your  daughter!  There  are  no 
Jewish  nunneries.  With  God's  help  she  too 
will  marry." 

He  had  an  eye  on  a  certain  young  widow 
with  a  little  money,  and  a  young  man  who 
needed  money.  He  invited  the  young  man  for 
tea  and  Mrs.  Adler  was  to  come  in  casually  on 
a  visit  to  Mrs.  Aaronson.  That  old  samovar 
was  to  do  duty  again. 

104 


THE  MARRIAGE  BROKER'S  DAUGHTER 

Leah  was  watching.  She  was  wise  now. 
That  young  man  was  to  be  hers. 

She  placed  her  chair  facing  the  young  man 
and  sat  near  the  widow  to  give  him  a  chance 
to  compare  between  them.  The  young  man 
was  very  bashful,  so  the  widow  also  simulated 
bashfulness.  But  Leah  was  in  her  best  mood, 
and  actually  sang  as  she  poured  tea  for  the 
company.  She  made  Mrs.  Adler  look  twenty 
years  older  by  comparison,  and  angered  the 
young  widow  so  much  that  she  left  the  table 
with  tears  trembling  on  her  eyelashes. 

The  deal  with  the  widow  fell  through.  He 
did  not  like  her.  She  was  too  old. 

Two  months  later  Leah  married  the  young 
fellow.  She  swept  him  off  his  feet  behind  her 
father's  back. 

Aaronson  was  studying  his  little  notebook 
for  a  suitable  match  for  the  man,  when  the 
young  couple  came  into  the  room  and  an 
nounced  that  they  were  just  married  by  the 
Alderman  of  the  district. , 

The  marriage  broker  could  not  forgive  his 
105 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


daughter.  Not  only  had  she  robbed  him  of  a 
possible  fee,  but  she  had  completed  the  ruin 
of  his  business.  People  will  point  at  him  and 
say: 

"A  marriage  broker,  and  his  daughter  made 
a  love  match!" 


106 


THE   NEW   SECRETARY  OF   THE 
PRETZEL-PAINTERS'  UNION 

r  jlHE  Pretzel-Painters'  Union  had  emerged 
X  victoriously  from  their  last  strike.  The 
Pretzel  eating  population  of  the  city  had  re 
fused  to  eat  Pretzels  that  were  not  glazed  by 
the  expert  hand  of  a  capable  expert  in  the  art 
of  pretzel  painting — the  beer-drinking  popula 
tion  refused  to  drink  beer  in  saloons  where  dull 
pretzels  were  offered  and  capital  had  to  yield 
to  labor.  Organized  labor  was  triumphant. 
The  pretzel  painters  who  had  worked  fourteen 
hours  a  day  for  ten  dollars  a  week  before  the 
strike,  won  a  ten-hour  day,  an  increase  of  two 
dollars  a  week,  as  well  as  official  recognition  of 
their  Union. 

The  Union  consisted  of  twenty  members,  all 
of  whom,  except  one,  were  officials  of  the  or 
ganization.  The  officials  numbered  a  presi- 

107 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


dent,  two  vice  presidents,  a  recording  secre 
tary  and  a  financial  secretary,  a  treasurer, 
three  controllers,  a  house  committee  of  five,  an 
organizer  and  three  trustees.  The  total  in 
come  of  the  Union  from  dues  never  amounted 
to  more  than  three  dollars  a  week,  but  this  was 
supplemented  by  the  income  from  the  yearly 
Pretzel-Painters'  concert  and  ball  every  win 
ter,  and  from  the  picnic  every  summer. 

After  the  strike  was  won  the  members  felt 
the  necessity  of  solidarity  more  than  ever. 
This  feeling  brought  them  together  twice  every 
week  to  discuss  Union  matters  and  matters  of 
private  concern.  But  after  a  while,  when  they 
had  exhausted  all  possible  subjects  and  the 
Union  was  running  smoothly,  the  organizer 
had  difficulty  getting  even  the  legal  quorum 
together  once  every  second  week.  The  organ 
izer  knew  from  experience  what  such  negli 
gence  caused. 

The  collection  of  dues  had  already  diminish 
ed  perceptibly.  Some  of  the  members  were  in 
arrears  with  five  and  six  weeks.  Fifteen  cents 

108 


THE  NEW  SECRETARY 


a  week  is  comparatively  easy  to  pay,  but  when 
the  sum  is  over  a  dollar  and  the  pay  is  twelve 
dollars  a  week — it's  a  different  story!  The 
Pretzel-Painters'  Local  was  in  great  danger. 

The  organizer  began  to  feel  that  non-union 
pretzel-painters  were  shining  the  beer  drinkers' 
delicacy.  He  called  meeting  after  meeting  and 
described  passionately  to  the  four  or  five  old 
men  present  the  great  fight  between  Labor 
and  Capital  in  general  and  the  battle  their  own 
Union  had  won;  the  high  price  paid  for  what 
they  already  had  gained  through  solid  organi 
zation,  but  it  was  all  in  vain ;  the  others  did  not 
come.  They  owed  too  much  for  dues  and  fines. 

Finally  the  organizer  hit  upon  a  great  idea. 
"The  Pretzal-Painters'  Union  has  to  be  reor 
ganized,"  he  wrote  to  all  the  members. 

It  was  a  new  thing,  that  word  "reorganized." 
It  was  something  worth  while  finding  out 
about.  "We  must  reorganize  or  our  organiza 
tion  goes  to  pieces,"  he  wrote  to  them.  That 
Wednesday  evening  was  a  gala  evening.  The 
financial  secretary  had  never  taken  in  so  much 

109 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


money  at  once;  twenty-six  dollars  in  one  eve 
ning!  They  all  paid  up  to  the  minute;  be 
cause  it  was  explained  in  the  letter  that  only 
members  with  paid-up  dues  had  a  vote  in  the 
reorganization  of  the  mighty  Pretzel-Painters' 
Union. 

The  Pretzel-Painters'  Union  was  not  with 
out  its  inner  dissensions.  There  was  a  group 
of  Galician  Jews  and  a  group  of  Russian  Jews 
always  fighting  one  another;  and  both  groups 
fought  whatever  the  group  of  Roumanian  Jews 
proposed.  There  were  also  two  old  Portu 
guese  Jews ;  and  whatever  they  wanted  carried 
through  was  sure  to  be  defeated  by  the  above- 
mentioned  three  groups. 

But  the  Russian  group  was  always  the  de 
ciding  factor.  By  themselves  alone  they  were 
the  majority  of  the  organization. 

After  the  secretary  had  announced  that 
everybody  was  present  and  paid  up  to  the  min 
ute,  the  chairman,  Mr.  Bindzel,  opened  the 
meeting  and  asked  the  organizer  to  explain  the 
cry  of  distress. 

110 


THE  NEW  SECRETARY 


"Mr.  Chairman  and  brothers,"  the  organizer 
began,  "we  must  reorganize  or  we  go  to  pieces. 
Already  the  Hinshel  Company  employs  two 
non-union  pretzel  painters.  If  we  don't  reor 
ganize  they  will  break  our  Union.  We  must 
uphold  the  rights  of  labor  or  the  heel  of  capi 
talism  will  crush  us " 

He  spoke  well  into  the  night  and  urged  them 
with  tears  in  his  eyes  and  a  proper  catch  in  the 
voice  to  stand  by  the  flag  of  their  class. 

The  silence  was  very  impressive  when  the 
organizer  finished  and  sat  down  to  wipe  his 
perspiring  face.  No  one  spoke  a  word.  The 
chairman  did  not  want  to  break  the  silence. 
He  felt  the  greatness  of  the  moment. 

Finally  brother  Kessler  said : 

"Mr.  Chairman!" 

"Brother  Kessler  has  the  floor." 

Brother  Kessler,  of  the  Galician  group,  sel 
dom  took  the  floor.  So  everybody  was  aston 
ished  that  he  of  all  others  should  want  to  speak. 

"Mr.  Chairman  and  Brothers.  .  .  .  Mr. 
Ill 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


Chairman     Of  course,  we  want  to  reorganize, 
but  we  don't  know  how  to  do  it." 

"Well  said!  Go  ahead  Brother  Kessler!" 
several  voices  were  heard  at  once. 

Kessler  took  heart. 

"We  are  Pretzel  Painters.  We  are  proud  of 
our  Union,  are  strong  for  our  Union,  and  we 
want  to  protect  it.  Let  Brother  Kirshen,  our 
organizer,  tell  us  how." 

"Sure,  Kessler  is  right.  Let  Brother  Kir 
shen  tell  us  how,"  came  voices  from  every 
where. 

"Order,  please!"  the  chariman  called.  "This 
is  an  important  meeting.  On  it  depends  the 
battle  between  Labor  and  Capital.  Order, 
please.  Brother  Kirshen  has  the  floor." 

Brother  Kirshen,  aglow  from  his  recent  tri 
umph,  took  the  centre  of  the  platform. 

"The  first  thing  to  do  to  reorganize  our 
Union  is  to  elect  new  officers.  I  make  there 
fore  a  motion  that  we  elect  new  officers." 

"Mr.  Chairman,  Mr.  Chairman,  Mr.  Chair 
man,"  several  called  out. 

112 


THE  NEW  SECRETARY 


"That's  a  political  trick/'  called  out  the  Rou 
manian  group  in  one  voice. 

"Order,  please!"  yelled  the  chairman.  The 
heavy  gavel  came  down  upon  the  table. 

Everybody  was  soon  seated. 

"I  make  an  amendment  to  the  motion," 
Kessler  said. 

"Sit  down,  Brother  Kessler,  we  must  pro 
ceed  regularly.  The  Pretzel-Painters'  Union 
has  a  constitution.  We  will  proceed  accord 
ing  to  its  constitution.  The  constitution  of  the 
Pretzel-Painters'  Union  says  that  when  a  mo 
tion  is  put  before  the  house,  it  is  first  voted 
upon  before  any  amendments  are  discussed. 
Does  anybody  want  to  speak  on  the  motion?" 

"Then,  I  propose  that  the  motion  be  voted 
upon  without  debates  because  it  is  late  and 
they  will  soon  put  out  the  lights  in  the  house," 
said  Kessler. 

"Politics,  politics,"  the  Portuguese  group 
cried.  "Traitor,  traitor,"  came  from  another 
group.  But  when  Kessler's  proposal  was  vot 
ed  upon  he  had  a  majority.  The  Russian  group 

113 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


voted  with  him.  And  so  it  happened  that  the 
nineteen  officers  of  the  Pretzel-Painters'  Union 
were  shifted  around. 

The  chairman  became  the  treasurer  and  so 
forth.  But  when  it  came  to  vote  upon  the 
secretaryship,  Kessler,  who  had  hitherto  been 
the  twentieth  of  the  Union,  the  only  member 
who  had  been  without  an  office,  was  elected 
Secretary  of  the  Pretzel-Painters'  Union,  be 
cause  he  was  backed  by  the  Russian  group. 

The  following  evening  Kessler  was  the  first 
to  appear  at  the  local  of  the  Union.  A  little 
later  the  dethroned  official  appeared.  They 
did  not  even  greet  one  another.  Kirshen,  the 
organizer,  was  the  third  man  to  come. 

"Brother  Grumberg,"  he  said  to  the  former 
secretary,  "would  you  please  give  over  the 
books  to  brother  Kessler  and  show  him  what 
he  has  to  do?" 

Grumberg  took  out  from  a  drawer  the  two 
books  of  the  Union  and  was  ready  to  explain 
the  work. 

"But  by  God!  In  God's  name!  What  do 
114 


THE  NEW  SECRETARY 


you  want  me  to  do  with  these  books?"  Kessler 
cried. 

"Record  the  meetings,  brother  Kessler,  write 
down  what  takes  place,"  Grumberg  said. 

"What?"  the  new  Secretary  called  out  hor 
ror-stricken.  "I — write?  How  should  I  write? 
I  don't  write — I  don't  know  how  to  write — 
never  did.  What  do  you  want  with  my  life — 
what?" 

"For  God's  sake,  Kessler!  If  you  cannot 
read  and  write  why  did  you  accept  the  nomina 
tion  for  the  secretaryship?"  the  organizer  asked 
angrily.  But  Kessler  was  defiant. 

"Well,  how  and  from  where  did  you  want 
me  to  know  that  a  secretary  must  know  to  read 
and  write?" 

Kessler's  resignation  and  the  election  of  a 
new  secretary  brought  the  organization  on  the 
brink  of  ruin.  And  if  it  would  not  have  been 
for  the  superior  generalship  of  organizer 
Kirshen  the  Pretzel-Painters'  Union  would 
have  been  crushed  under  the  heel  of  capital 
ism. 

115 


THE  GYPSY  BLOOD  THAT  TELLS 

ONE  does  not  expect  to  meet  anything  out 
of  the  ordinary  at  West  Farms  to  break 
the  monotony  where  the  big  city  fringes  out. 
The  old  wooden  shacks  lean  on  the  brick  tene 
ments,  and  one  does  not  know  whether  the  city 
invades  the  peaceful  country  or  the  country 
tries  to  catch  up  with  the  city.  The  outskirts 
of  New  York  always  brings  to  me  the  memory 
of  a  certain  gentleman  in  silk  hat  and  dress 
suit,  but  with  the  ends  of  his  trousers  in  fringes 
and  his  shoes  down  at  the  heel.  But — as  a 
wise  man  once  said — if  one  stands  in  one  place 
long  enough  he  sees  the  whole  world  pass  be 
fore  him  as  in  a  kaleidoscope.  Thus  also  my 
frequent  visits  to  West  Farms  were  repaid 
when  I  saw  one  morning  a  gypsy  tribe  camped 
there. 

Six  wagons  back  of  the  road,  a  dozen  horses 
116 


THE  GYPSY  BLOOD  THAT  TELLS 

neighing  as  they  rubbed  their  noses  on  the 
shafts;  a  few  tents  with  the  flaps  undulating 
windward ;  a  few  patches  of  color  on  the  dress 
of  the  women.  What  a  change  it  made  in  the 
dreary  place,  how  stolid  old  West  Farms  was 
transformed  when  the  curling  smoke  rose  from 
the  stovepipes  of  the  camp  wagons ! 

I  expected  to  hear  the  usual  noise  attending 
camping;  song  and  laughter,  as  only  gypsies 
can  sing  and  laugh. 

It  was  a  Roumanian  gypsy  tribe;  one  of 
many  that  have  come  over  to  this  country  in 
the  last  decade.  But  the  people  went  about  in 
the  quietest  possible  way,  which  I  knew  was 
not  at  all  their  custom. 

"Have  they  taken  on  manners?"  I  wondered. 

Children  of  the  neighborhood,  and  even 
grown-ups,  began  to  assemble  around  the  wag 
ons.  They  stood  at  a  distance.  A  mother 
warned  her  over-curious  little  boy : 

"Don't  go  too  near,  dearie!  Gypsies  steal 
children." 

117 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


As  the  woman  spoke  two  little  boys  of  the 
tribe  climbed  out  from  one  of  the  camp  wag 
ons. 

"Look  at  these  white  children!"  exclaimed 
several  people. 

"Surely,  stolen  children." 

The  features  of  the  children  were  distinctly 
of  a  Roumanian  cast.  A  young  gypsy  woman 
followed  the  little  ones  to  a  tent. 

From  inside  the  wagon  broke  out  a  loud  cry 
that  was  drowned  in  the  wails  and  groanings 
of  the  people  in  every  wagon  and  tent.  The 
curious  throng  assembled  about  the  Ccimp  now 
widened  the  circle.  The  gypsy  litany  of  the 
dead  was  officiated. 

In  funeral  rhythm  the  dead  one's  virtues 
were  enumerated  one  by  one,  while  others  made 
incantations  to  chase  the  evil  spirit. 

"Leave  us!  If  thou  hast  come  through  the 
chimney,  leave  through  the  chimney;  and  if 
through  the  door,  evil  one,  leave  the  same  way!" 

"That  thou  be  fed  burning  stones  from  now 
118 


THE  GYPSY  BLOOD  THAT  TELLS 

until  eternity.     That  thy  thirst  be  quenched 
only  with  the  blood  of  thy  own  kin." 

The  same  incantations  were  repeated  for 
more  than  a  half  hour.  They  ceased  abruptly, 
at  the  sound  of  a  gong.  The  evil  one  had  de 
parted.  Slowly,  in  single  file,  the  gypsies  de 
scended  the  steps  of  the  wagon  and  bowed  very 
low  westward,  to  the  setting  sun  of  an  early 
autumn  day,  before  going  each  one  to  his  own 
tent. 

The  circle  of  the  curious  neighbors  had  wid 
ened  very  much  when  I  approached  an  old 
gypsy  and  asked  him  who  had  died.  He  turned 
full  face  as  he  said : 

"Our  Chief,  Yorga,  our  Chief.  We  would 
want  to  bury  him  under  a  tree  near  a  river — 
but  can  we  do  as  we  please  in  this  country? 
Tell  me,  stranger." 

Like  the  drippings  from  a  burning  candle 
the  tears  fell  from  the  man's  eyes  as  he  spoke 
to  me. 

On  the  wooden  cross  over  Yorga's  grave  I 
119 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


have  carved  with  my  pen-knife  the  name  of  the 
dead  one.  In  the  fall  of  every  year  his  tribe 
comes  to  the  burial  grounds,  and  each  one  cuts 
out  a  piece  of  cloth  from  his  best  garment  and 
leaves  it  there  as  an  offering  to  the  dead  Chief. 

And  the  old  gypsy  told  me:  "A  great  man 
was  Yorga.  A  king  among  men.  His  mother 
was  killed  by  her  father  when  Yorga  was  born, 
because  she  was  the  daughter  of  a  great  Rou 
manian  boyar,  and  the  child,  fruit  of  a  secret 
love,  was  the  son  of  a  gypsy.  But  the  child 
was  allowed  to  live,  so  beautiful  was  he. 

"When  Yorga  was  six  years  old,  his  grand 
father,  the  old  boyar,  who  had  no  other  chil 
dren,  took  the  boy  from  the  servant  quarters 
into  the  house  and  called  a  special  teacher  to 
show  him  the  letters.  Later  on  Yorga  was 
sent  to  school,  and  grew  to  be  a  learned  man. 
All  this  time  he  did  not  know  who  his  father 
was,  and  did  not  know  that  the  hand  he  kissed 
good-night  was  the  one  that  had  murdered  his 
mother. 

120 


THE  GYPSY  BLOOD  THAT  TELLS 

"But  there  was  a  restless  spirit  in  the  boy;  a 
spirit  that  made  him  roam  from  city  to  city 
whenever  he  had  an  opportunity.  And  thus  he 
wandered  all  over  the  world.  In  search  of 
learning,  it  was  thought.  Because  no  one  real 
ized  the  yearning  of  the  gypsy  in  this  stately 
youth. 

"When  Yorga  was  twenty-five  his  grand 
father  married  him  to  another  boyar's  daugh 
ter.  The  following  year  the  old  man  died, 
leaving  his  land  and  fortune  to  his  grandson. 

"Yorga  was  not  happy  in  his  marriage,  not 
because  the  'Conitza'  was  not  a  beautiful  and 
good  wife,  not  because  she  did  not  love  him. 
Neither  did  his  great  fortune  bring  him  happi 
ness.  It  only  tied  him  down  to  one  place.  Yor 
ga  began  to  go  to  the  city  once  a  month,  and 
usually  came  home  drunk.  Then  once  every 
week.  Later  on  he  was  seldom  seen  at  home. 

"The  usurers  first  took  away  part  of  his 
land,  then  some  of  his  oxen.  His  wife  cried. 
One  and  then  another  child  was  born  to  them. 

121 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


Yorga  made  resolutions  to  better  himself- 
cried  and  beat  his  heart  and  asked  for  forgive 
ness.  A  few  days,  a  few  weeks,  or  a  few 
month  of  strenuous  work,  and  then  again  back 
to  the  riotous  life,  to  dissipation — and  again 
home  a  repentant  sinner.  The  land  he  owned 
shrunk  daily.  And  the  cattle  he  owned  were 
either  taken  away  or  died  in  neglect — because 
'the  eye  of  the  master  fattens  the  cows.'  And 
Yorga  was  careless.  He  had  no  ambition  in 
life.  He  wanted  nothing,  he  desired  nothing. 
Even  his  carouses  no  longer  had  any  distrac 
tion  for  him. 

"Then  one  day  our  tribe  camped  near  his 
grounds.  At  once  he  left  wife,  children,  land 
and  home,  and  came  to  live  with  us.  For  twen 
ty  years  he  guided  our  ways.  There  was  no 
day  that  he  thought  not  and  labored  not  for  us. 
He  no  longer  thought  of  carouses  and  drinks. 
He  bade  us  dress  cleanly  and  live  healthful 
lives,  and  we  were  respected  wherever  we  came. 
It  was  he  who  guided  us  here  over  strange 

122 


THE  GYPSY  BLOOD  THAT  TELLS 

lands  and  great  seas,  and  his  wisdom  is  still 
guiding  us." 

"But,"  asked  I,  "what  about  the  white  chil 
dren  I  saw  in  your  tents?" 

"They  are  of  Yorga  and  his  gypsy  wife — 
and  with  them  we  have  great  trouble,  for  our 
ways  are  not  their  ways.  Their  souls  are  like 
the  soul  of  Yorga's  mother,  the  boyar's  daugh 
ter.  Some  day  they  will  run  away  and  settle 
in  some  village — stolid,  stale  peasants." 

"And  what  about  Yorga's  first  children?"  I 
asked  again. 

"They  roam  the  world;  are  celebrated  musi 
cians.  And  the  sun  never  finds  them  where 
the  moon  put  them  to  sleep.  They  have  the 
father's  blood,"  the  old  man  answered  as  he 
took  with  his  bare  fingers  a  piece  of  burning 
charcoal  to  light  his  freshly  stuffed  pipe. 

"What's  born  of  a  cat  runs  after  mice." 


123 


WHEN  STARR'S  CAFE  WAS 
CLOSED 

IMPOSSIBLE,    impossible,    impossible," 
said    everybody    when    the    news    passed 
around  that  Stark's  Cafe  was  closed  and  that 
the  house  was  being  demolished. 

Stark's  Cafe  on  Houston  Street  was  a  cele 
brated  landmark  of  New  York.  It  was  there 
that  the  playwrights,  from  the  most  preten 
tious  to  the  humblest,  closed  contracts  with 
managers.  A  special  table  at  the  upper  end  of 
the  place  was  reserved  for  this  purpose,  and 
when  a  manager  was  sitting  at  that  table  with 
a  playwright  it  meant  business.  "Charlie"  the 
lawyer,  would  then  loom  up  from  somewhere 
and  draw  up  the  "funeral  papers."  Stark's 
Cafe!  Why,  Jewish  actors  in  Alexandria, 
Egypt,  made  appointments  with  their  London 
acquaintances  to  "meet  at  Stark's."  It  was 
not  necessary  to  add  "in  New  York." 

124 


WHEN  STARR'S  CAFE  WAS  CLOSED 

Stark's  was  the  stage  mart  of  the  world. 
The  first  tables  near  the  door,  just  ordinary 
wooden  tables,  were  apportioned  for  the  ush 
ers,  ticket  speculators  and  supers.  Next  to 
these  tables  were  a  few  better  ones,  marble 
topped,  at  which  were  seated  the  provincial 
actors  on  visit  in  the  metropolis.  After  those, 
there  were  a  few  which  belonged  to  musicians 
and  the  writers  of  vaudeville  jingles.  But  the 
round  centre  tables  and  those  near  the  windows 
toward  Houston  Street  were  reserved  for  stars 
of  both  sexes,  managers  and  successful  play 
wrights.  Stark's  head  waiter  put  it  very  clear 
ly:  "These  tables  are  reserved  for  gentlemen 
who  at  least  occasionally  put  on  a  silk  hat." 

And  now,  this  place,  this  rendezvous  of  the 
two  hemispheres  was  closed  and  being  torn 
down. 

Old  Samuels,  one  of  the  oldest  Jewish  actors, 
complained  bitterly  about  it. 

"You  understand,"  he  said,  "it's  now  twenty 
125 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


years  that  I  never  missed  a  day  from  Stark's. 
In  the  morning,  after  breakfast,  I'd  shave, 
dress  and  go  to  Stark's.  Maybe,  who  knows! 
and  after  lunch  I'd  return  there.  To  save  car 
fare  we  moved  not  far  from  the  place.  After 
supper  I  was  again  there,  and  after  the  show 
— maybe — maybe." 

Samuel's  nickname  was  "Samuel  Maybe," 
because  it's  now  more  than  twenty  years  since 
he  came  from  London,  where  he  was  a  success, 
to  play  here,  and  it's  still  "Maybe."  But  he 
has  never  been  faithless  to  his  art.  Oh,  no! 
This  was  chiefly  due  to  the  fact  that  his  wife 
and  daughter  were  excellent  dressmakers. 

"You  see  for  yourself  what  a  calamity  the 
tearing  down  of  Stark's  place  is,"  old  Samuels 
continued,  as  he  wiped  a  tear  from  his  eye. 
"All  my  hopes  are  blasted.  There  can  be  no 
'maybe'  any  longer — I  am  doomed.  What 
will  I  do  every  morning,  every  afternoon,  every 
evening?  Where  will  they  come  to  look  for  me 
when  they  will  need  me?" 

126 


WHEN  STARR'S  CAFE  WAS  CLOSED 

I  must  tell  here  that  this  conversation  took 
place  in  a  new  cafe  on  10th  Street;  whereupon 
some  kind-hearted  companion  suggested  to  the 
weather-beaten  veteran  of  the  Jewish  stage 
that  he  should  make  this  place  his  steady  abode. 
But  the  old  man  straightened  his  bent  back, 
his  eyes  flashed  fire  and  his  thin  hands  shot  out 
from  his  white  cuffs  in  a  dramatic  sweep. 
"Here,  in  this  place?  I,  Samuels,  the  man  who 
created  'Kean'  Shylock?  No,  never!  Even 
if  I  starve  to  death.  In  a  place  without  atmos 
phere,  without  traditions — never !  never  1" 

One  minute  later  he  looked  up  at  the  clock 
on  the  wall  and  began  to  make  hasty  excuses: 
His  wife  was  waiting  for  him  with  supper. 

Samuel's  past  contained  one  of  the  greatest 
dramas.  It  ruined  his  life.  It  wiped  the  floor 
with  him,  so  to  say.  Here  is  what  had  hap 
pened  to  him  twenty-odd  years  ago: 

There  were  only  two  Jewish  theatres  worthy 
of  the  name  in  the  whole  world.  One  was  in 
London,  and  the  other  on  the  Bowery,  New 

127 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


York— the  old  Thalia  Theatre.  The  theatre 
in  the  Bowery  had  the  greater  reputation  be 
cause  of  the  genius  of  the  lamented  playwright, 
Jacob  Gordin,  presiding  there,  and  the  host  of 
actors  he  had  developed.  It  was  the  ambition 
of  every  London  actor  to  play  in  Xew  York. 
One  of  Samuels's  confreres  had  already 
achieved  fame  on  the  Bowery  when  Samuels, 
who  like  all  actors  knew  in  his  heart  of  hearts 
that  he  was  better  than  any  other  living  actor, 
decided  to  try  his  luck  over  here.  In  London 
he  was  already  famous  in  certain  classic  roles. 

Ten  days  after  his  decision  was  taken,  he  and 
his  grip  landed  at  Stark's  Cafe. 

"From  London?  How  is  London?  What's 
the  new  play  there?" 

Samuels  had  his  best  clothes  on,  and  was  ad 
mitted  to  the  centre  tables.  It  brought  him  in 
contact  with  stars  and  managers.  His  con 
frere,  who  had  preceded  him  here,  sat  envious 
ly  at  one  of  the  minor  tables.  He  only  had  a 
small  part  in  a  play,  for  which  he  received  pay 
in  "pasteboards"  (tickets),  which  he  himself 

128 


WHEN  STARK'S  CAFE  WAS  CLOSED 

peddled  or  sold  to  the  brood  of  speculators.  In 
those  days  Jewish  actors  did  not  own  ten-thou 
sand-dollar  automobiles.  Samuels's  initial  suc 
cess,  the  ready  admittance  to  the  centre  tables, 
made  his  former  friend,  Kashin,  green  with 
envy. 

It  so  happened  that  Gordin,  the  dramatic 
manager,  saw  Samuels,  liked  his  face,  and  en 
gaged  him  immediately  for  a  new  play  they 
were  then  rehearsing. 

That  same  evening  a  cable  was  flashed  to 
London  to  the  actor's  wife:  "Pack  up  and 
come  with  baby."  It  brought  Esther  here  two 
weeks  later — just  in  time  for  the  opening  night 
of  the  new  show. 

Samuels's  role  was  the  one  next  to  the  star. 
Kashin  had  but  a  very  minor  role — as  a  body 
servant  to  Samuels,  who  was  stalking  about  in 
flowing  Oriental  robes  back  stage  from  one  end 
to  the  other. 

Samuels  waited  in  the  wings  for  his  cue.  He 
had  to  come  in  with  majestic  steps  and  utter 

129 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


his  decision  to  leave  his  faithless  spouse  to  her 
lover.  Oh  how  he  chafed,  waiting  for  his  cue! 
It  was  to  take  the  house  by  storm.  He  was  to 
outshine  even  the  star. 

And — the  cue  was  given,  Kashin  near  him — 
everything  in  order.  But  just  as  he  opened 
the  door,  Kashin  gently  but  firmly  stepped  on 
poor  Samuels's  corn — on  the  little  toe. 

The  pain  was  so  terrible  that  the  actor  stum 
bled  and  limped  on  the  stage  with  one  foot  in 
his  hands.  Mechanically  he  said  his  lines.  In 
stead  of  using  a  stentorian  voice  with  face  to 
the  gallery,  he  drawled  them  out  in  a  plaintive 
tone,  like  a  whimpering  dog,  looking  at  the 
stage  door,  with  his  back  to  the  audience. 

It  was  so  funny  that  the  audience  roared 
with  laughter  and  could  not  be  brought  to  its 
senses.  The  heroine  cried  and  pleaded,  but  it 
did  not  help.  The  gallery  continued  to  laugh. 
When  the  curtain  went  down  Kashin  had  dis 
appeared  from  the  theatre.  The  actors  almost 
mobbed  poor  Samuels.  The  playwright,  Gor- 
din,  could  have  killed  him.  "Even  if  they 

130 


WHEN  STARR'S  CAFE  WAS  CLOSED 

should  have  cut  your  head  off  you  should  still 
have  been  acting  your  role  properly,"  he  said. 
As  soon  as  the  poor  actor  appeared  again  in 
the  next  act,  the  people  shook  with  laughter. 
It  could  not  be  suppressed. 

When  the  manager  came  out  before  the  cur 
tain  and  explained  to  the  people  what  had  hap 
pened,  it  became  even  worse.  It  was  impos 
sible  to  go  on.  It  killed  the  show — a  good  play 
which  was  revived  ten  years  later  with  great 
success — and  it  killed  Samuels. 

Esther,  a  practical  wife,  opened  a  dressmak 
ing  shop.  Samuels  spent  the  next  year  or  so 
explaining  what  had  happened. 

The  first  few  weeks  after  the  occurrence 
Samuels  receded  from  the  centre  tables  at 
Stark's  to  the  side  tables,  and  actors  in  good 
humor  coaxed  him  into  telling  his  story  over 
and  over  again.  It  became  a  tradition  to  coax 
Samuels — and  Samuels  was  easily  coaxed  into 
telling  the  story. 

But  he  could  get  no  place  on  the  stage. 
131 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


From  a  character  player  he  became  a  charac 
ter.  It  became  a  habit  with  every  manager  to 
promise  him  a  part  in  the  next  play.  Some 
pretended  it  brought  good  luck  to  do  so.  When 
a  play  went  to  smash  it  was,  they  said,  "Be 
cause  Samuels  did  not  believe  you." 

Thus  the  Jewish  stage  grew  under  his  eyes 
with  the  doors  closed  to  him,  because  some  one 
had  stepped  on  his  corn.  He  became  "Maybe" 
— "maybe"  in  the  next  play. 

"Don't  refuse  Samuels,"  the  manager  would 
whisper  to  the  playwright  when  the  contract 
was  drawn  at  the  big  table.  "Don't  refuse  him ; 
it  brings  bad  luck." 

Samuels  would  certainly  have  his  eye  on  the 
proceedings,  and  come  up  to  shake  hands  and 
bid  good  luck. 

"And  will  I  have  a  part?" 

"I  hope  so,  Samuels." 

"Esther,  I  have  a  part  in  Ash's  new  play." 

Esther  had  heard  that  same  phrase  twenty 
years  thrice  a  day.  Like  all  actors  Samuels 
had  but  a  poor  vocabulary  of  his  own.  Rely- 

132 


WHEN  STARR'S  CAFE  WAS  CLOSED 

ing  on  other  men  to  supply  them  the  tools  of 
expression,  actors  are  poor  word  finders. 

Then,  the  night  of  the  first  performance, 
Samuels  would  warm  up  near  some  one,  and 
as  the  "role"  appeared  he  would  sadly  say, 
"My  role,  look  what  he  is  making  with  my 
role." 

Twenty  years  of  daily  hopes  and  daily  dis 
appointments.  A  whole  world  grew  up  before 
him.  He  knew  nothing  of  it  at  all.  Stark's 
Cafe  was  New  York,  America.  The  whole 
world  was  comprised  between  his  home  and 
this  place.  His  hair  turned  gray,  the  corners 
of  his  mouth  drooped,  his  eyes  dimmed,  his 
shoulders  stooped.  His  wife  grew  old,  his 
daughter  bloomed  into  youth  and  withered 
from  overwork.  There  came  the  Boer  War, 
several  earthquakes,  the  Balkan  War,  and  now 
this  Great  War.  All  this  left  Samuels  cold 
and  indifferent.  All  those  years  he  was  wait 
ing  at  Stark's  Cafe  for  an  engagement. 

"Maybe  to-day." 

And  this  haven  of  hope  has  disappeared. 
133 


BECAUSE  OF  BOOKKEEPING 

"VTOMINATIONS  for  treasurer  are  now 
•1*^1  in  order.  Nominations!" 

"Moishe  Goldberg"— "Moishe  Goldberg" 
— "Moishe  Goldberg,"  called  out  every  one 
present  at  the  yearly  election  of  the  Rouman 
ian  Sick  Benefit  Society. 

"Any  other  nominations?"  the  Secretary 
asked. 

"No,  no,  go  ahead;  it's  Moishe  Goldberg 
again,  Mr.  Secretary." 

"He's  good  enough,  good  enough,  Mr.  Sec 
retary." 

And  so  Moishe  Goldberg  was  elected  Treas 
urer  of  the  Society  by  acclamation.  It  was  a 
yearly  performance — since  the  last  twenty 
years. 

And  this  was  not  the  only  society  for  which 
Moishe  Goldberg  was  Treasurer — there  were 

134 


BECAUSE  OF  BOOKKEEPING 

a  dozen.  Every  Jewish-Roumanian  Society  of 
New  York  wanted  to  have  him  act  as  Treasur 
er.  Once  he  promised  to  accept  the  nomina 
tion,  no  other  man  would  care  to  run  against 
him,  and  the  yearly  election  was  merely  a  for 
mality  turned  into  flattery  as  far  as  he  was  con 
cerned.  His  probity  and  financial  responsibil 
ity  were  above  par.  His  charity  was  proverb 
ial. 

At  thirty  he  came  from  Roumania  with  his 
wife  and  two  little  girls.  With  the  few  dollars 
he  had  brought  with  him  he  opened  a  little  gro 
cery  store  on  Clinton  Street  which  prospered 
and  developed  into  a  bigger  store  on  Riving- 
ton  Street.  Of  a  religious,  old-fashioned  turn 
of  mind,  he  followed  old  Jewish  traditions. 
His  store  closed  Friday  night,  it  remained  so 
over  Saturday;  he  also  kept  closed  every  Jew 
ish  holiday.  He  let  his  beard  grow,  and  went 
regularly  to  the  synagogue  near  Forsythe 
Street.  ' 

When  he  heard  that  some  one  chided  him 
135 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


about  his  religious  punctiliousness,  he  said:  "I 
came  here  because  I  wanted  religious  freedom 
— what  I  have  I  want  to  use." 

"Moishe  Goldberg,  money  is  needed  for  a 
new  scroll." 

"Put  me  down  for  a  third  of  what  it  costs 
to  get  one." 

When  a  woman  bought  less  food  than  usual, 
Goldberg  would  ask,  "What's  the  matter?" 

"Husband  is  out  of  work." 

"Well,  do  you  want  to  starve  him  he  should 
have  no  strength  to  look  for  work?  Foolish 
woman!  Take  what  you  need;  when  he  will 
work  you  will  pay  me  up."  And  he  would  ac 
cept  no  thanks,  Moishe  Goldberg. 

In  spite  of  all  he  gave,  his  business  grew.  In 
a  few  years  he  had  four  stores,  branched  out 
in  some  leather  finding  business,  and  sold 
wholesale  to  smaller  groceries  in  East  New 
York  and  Brownsville. 

His  promptitude  made  the  wholesalers  vie 
with  each  other  as  to  who  should  sell  him  most. 

136 


BECAUSE  OF  BOOKKEEPING 

His  good  nature  attracted  customers  from  ev 
erywhere.  He  signed  no  notes  and  demanded 
none.  Every  one  trusted  him  and  he  trusted 
everybody.  He  had  a  little  note  book  in  which 
he  wrote  down  what  was  necessary.  For  the 
rest  he  had  an  excellent  memory. 

Thus  the  business  went  on  for  years,  and  as 
the  Jewish-Roumanian  population  grew  on  the 
east  side  his  fame  spread.  By  accident  he  be 
came  the  owner  of  a  few  tenement  houses. 
Rents  were  never  due.  People  generally  paid, 
and  when  they  did  not,  because  a  husband  was 
on  strike  or  a  child  sick,  it  was  soon  forgotten. 

Each  evening  he  would  take  together  all  the 
moneys  and  checks  of  the  day  and  put  them  in 
a  leather  handbag.  The  next  morning  the 
whole  was  deposited  in  the  bank. 

If  a  bill  was  due  the  same  or  the  next  day 
and  there  was  not  enough  money  in  the  bank, 
all  he  had  to  do  was  to  'phone  up  to  one  of  his 
hundred  wealthy  friends  and  ask  a  check  of 
two  or  three  thousand  dollars  for  a  few  days. 
On  occasion  it  was  reciprocated. 

137 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


His  home  life  was  an  ideal  one.  He  lived  in 
the  district.  His  wife  was  as  good  and  old- 
fashioned  as  her  husband,  and  though  the  girls 
went  through  high  school,  all  they  had  modern 
ized  themselves  was  to  use  a  little  cold  cream, 
against  which  the  father  protested. 

At  twenty  the  older  girl  married  a  well-to- 
do  furrier,  to  whom  Moishe  Goldberg  gave  a 
check  of  ten  thousand  dollars,  after  having 
promised  only  five,  as  dowry. 

The  whole  affair  was  carried  along  old- 
fashioned  lines,  through  a  marriage  broker. 
The  wedding  was  an  event.  Members  from 
twenty  societies  brought  wedding  gifts  worth 
into  the  thousands. 

But  right  at  the  wedding,  Sofia,  the  younger 
daughter,  fell  in  love  with  a  cousin  of  her  sis 
ter's  husband,  a  young  bookkeeper. 

There  was  nothing  against  the  young  man. 
He  came  from  a  good  family,  was  well  educat 
ed  in  Hebrew.  Of  course  he  shaved.  But 
Moishe  Goldberg  was  tolerant  enough  to  un 
derstand.  To  his  wife's  objections  he  an- 

138 


BECAUSE  OF  BOOKKEEPING 

swered,  "It's  better  a  Jew  without  a  beard 
than  a  beard  without  a  Jew." 

There  was  only  one  serious  objection.  The 
young  man  was  making  very  little  money — 
twenty  a  week.  But  Sofia  loved  him.  She  was 
the  only  one  now. 

"And  after  all,"  Moishe  Goldberg  said  to 
his  wife,  "maybe  it's  better  so.  I  will  take  him 
into  the  business.  Why  should  my  son-in-law 
work  elsewhere?  Sofia  will  continue  to  live 
with  us.  There  is  plenty  room  in  the  house." 

And  Sofia  agreed,  and  the  young  man 
agreed.  The  wedding  of  the  first  daughter 
took  place  in  the  spring,  and  that  of  the  second 
daughter  late  in  the  fall. 

In  three  different  synagogues  dinners  for  the 
poor  were  served  at  Moishe  Goldberg's  ex 
pense  for  a  full  week. 

And  because  he  gave  no  dowry,  he  sent 
checks  to  every  charitable  institution.  He 
agreed  to  forget  the  monthly  rent  due  from  a 
dozen  tenants.  Many  an  old  account  was  torn 

139 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


out.     All  the  people  working  for  him  got  a 
raise  in  their  wages. 

After  the  wedding  the  young  couple  went  on 
a  honeymoon  to  Chicago,  where  the  first  daugh 
ter  now  lived. 

When  they  returned  Moishe  Goldberg  took 
his  son-in-law  down  to  the  store  and  showed 
him  the  new  sign,  "Goldberg  &  Waldman, 
Wholesale  and  Retail  Grocers." 

There  was  not  much  to  be  said.  The  two 
men  kissed  each  other  in  sight  of  all  the  people 
on  the  street.  The  young  man  entered  the 
store. 

"This  is  your  new  boss,"  Goldberg  said  to 
his  employees.  "I  will  begin  to  sleep  a  little 
longer  every  morning  from  now  on." 

Waldman  greeted  the  men,  shook  hands 
with  some.  His  father-in-law  showed  him  the 
back  of  the  store,  packed  with  boxes  and  bar 
rels  and  bags.  He  brought  him  down  the  cel 
lar  where  the  herring  barrels  were  deposited. 

"Ephraim,  my  son,  I  will  tell  Sofia  to  make 
140 


BECAUSE  OF  BOOKKEEPING 

you  an  apron.     I  will  make  a  regular  grocer 
out  of  you." 

The  next  day  the  young  man  saw  merchan 
dise  come  and  go,  checks  come  and  checks  go, 
with  no  order,  no  billing,  Moishe  Goldberg 
only  noting  down  in  his  book  an  item  here  and 
there. 

"And  where  are  your  books,  father?" 
"What  books;  who  needs  books,  who?" 
"Why,  father,  how  can  you  carry  on  such  a 
business  without  books?" 

"You  are  as  silly  as  all  the  other  young 
chaps.  I  am  twenty  years  in  business  and  nev 
er  saw  the  need  of  books.  What  I  am  afraid 
I  won't  remember  I  note  down  here — that's 
good  enough  for  me.  Have  a  look  at  my  check 
book  and  see." 

Ephraim  Waldman  went  home  a  worried 
man  that  evening.  It  was  Friday  night,  and 
the  best  fish  ever  cooked,  for  which  Mrs.  Gold 
berg  was  so  famous,  was  not  good  enough  to 
relieve  his  mind.  Even  Sofia's  kisses  were 
thrown  away. 

141 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


"What's  the  matter  with  Ephraim?"  the 
mother  asked. 

"He  wants  books."  Moishe  Goldberg 
laughed  aloud  as  he  patted  his  daughter.  "You 
can  see  he  is  a  bookkeeper;  without  books  he 
can't  even  eat  fish." 

Waldman  wanted  to  expostulate,  but  his 
father-in-law  cut  him  short. 

"At  home,  and  especially  on  Saturday,  I 
don't  allow  business  talk.  If  you  can't  be  mer 
ry,  go  to  your  rooms  with  your  wife." 

"No  use  being  so  cross  with  him,"  Gold 
berg's  wife  said  after  the  young  people  had 
retired. 

"I  don't  want  him  to  spoil  my  holiday,  the 
young  smut-nose-know-everything.  Goes  two 
years  to  school  and  thinks  that  even  God  owes 
him  an  accounting.  He  must  remember  that 
he  is  in  Moishe  Goldberg's  house." 

Saturday  passed  quietly.  Sofia's  eyes  were 
a  little  red,  but  her  husband  seemed  to  want 
to  make  up  for  past  misdeeds,  and  was  very 

142 


BECAUSE  OF  BOOKKEEPING 

merry.  At  the  synagogue  he  comported  him 
self  beautifully.  Moishe  Goldberg  was  espe 
cially  proud  of  his  son-in-law's  reading  from 
the  scroll. 

"Well,  what  do  you  say  to  my  American? 
He  reads  from  the  Holy  Scroll  like  a  charm." 
And  everybody  complimented  him. 

Sunday  was  a  half  holiday,  but  on  Monday 
when  the  business  started  agoing,  Waldman 
could  not  stand  it. 

"Father,"  he  said  in  the  evening,  "it  can't- 
go  on  that  way.  We  must  have  some  books. 
No  business  is  carried  on  that  way." 

"Books!  bosh;  don't  bother  about  books. 
Attend  to  business." 

"But  how  can  you  know  anything,  father?" 

"Not  being  a  bookkeeper,  I  know  my  busi 
ness.  The  best  proof  that  bookkeepers  are  not 
business  men  is  that  they  are  working  for  some 
body  else." 

The  next  day,  and  the  next,  and  the  next, 
Sofia's  eyes  were  red  from  crying. 

143 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


"What  should  be  the  matter  with  her?"  Mrs. 
Goldberg  asked  her  husband. 

"The  Talmud  says,  that  a  young  couple  are 
like  a  new  wagon  and  a  new  horse.  They  must 
adjust  themselves,"  was  his  answer. 

But  the  mother  was  not  satisfied  with  the 
answer,  and  she  got  her  daughter's  confidence. 

"Ephraim  wants  to  look  for  a  position.  He 
says  he  can't  understand  a  business  which  has 
no  bookkeeping.  No  modern  business  is  car 
ried  on  that  way." 

The  long  and  short  of  the  story  was  that 
Moishe  Goldberg  was  browbeaten  by  the  two 
women.  He  gave  his  little  notebook  to  his  son- 
in-law  who  undertook  to  make  an  inventory  of 
all  the  assets  of  Goldberg  &  Waldman. 

The  old  merchant  had  the  fun  of  his  life  to 
watch  the  young  man  enter  everything  in  his 
books.  But  the  laughter  died  on  his  lips  when 
this  same  young  man  told  him  that  the  assets 
were  some  sixty  thousand  dollars  less  than  the 
liabilities. 

"It's  a  stupid  lie !    Only  a  silly  fellow  with  a 


BECAUSE  OF  BOOKKEEPING 

bookkeeping  mania  could  say  such  a  foolish 
thing." 

But  the  old  man  could  not  sleep  that  night. 
A  few  days  later  he  was  short  of  a  couple  of 
thousand  dollars  to  pay  a  bill.  He  lacked  the 
old-time  courage  to  ring  up  one  of  his  business 
friends.  He  could  have  gotten  the  money  from 
his  bank,  but  there  too  his  courage  failed  him. 

Little  by  little,  yet  rapidly  enough,  it  was 
whispered  about  that  the  wealthy  grocer  was 
not  as  solid  as  had  been  thought.  Six  months 
after  the  wedding  of  his  second  daughter  the 
red  flag  of  the  auctioneer  hung  in  front  of  the 
store  for  the  benefit  of  the  creditors. 

"But  how  did  it  all  happen?"  asked  his  first 
son-in-law,  the  furrier  when  he  arrived  from 
Chicago,  at  the  news  of  the  calamity. 

Broken  down,  old,  worn,  sick,  Moishe  Gold 
berg  moaned: 

"Because  my  daughter  married  a  book 
keeper." 


145 


THE  STRENGTH  OF  THE  WEAK 

The  Mastodon  lias  disappeared  but  we  are 
still  pestered  by  flies. 

fTHEIE  whole  story  could  be  told  in  one  para- 
JL  graph,  nay,  in  one  statement  contradict 
ing  bluntly  a  biological  law,  the  survival  of  the 
fittest.  But  these  laws  are  so  pliable  one  is  as 
much  afraid  to  contradict  as  the  promulgators 
were  afraid  to  establish  them.  So  I  am  to  tell 
the  story  as  gently  and  as  objectively  as  the 
matter  on  hand  will  permit. 

•Many,  many  years  ago  Hans  Burgmiller,  a 
plumber,  came  over  here  from  Germany  and 
established  himself  in  business  on  what  is  now 
St.  Mark's  Place.  You  can  still  see  the  name 
"Burgmiller,  Plumber,"  over  the  door  of  the 
old  place.  The  original  black  letters  stick  out 
from  underneath  a  dozen  coats  of  paint,  as 

146 


THE  STRENGTH  OF  THE  WEAK 

though  the  old  man  would  from  his  grave  cry 
out  and  fight  against  effacement. 

I  don't  know  what  plumbing  there  was  to  be 
done  at  that  time  in  the  district.  But  Hans 
Burgmiller  prospered  in  his  own  way.  A  few 
years  after  his  establishment  he  surrendered 
himself  to  the  joys  of  fatherhood  and  little 
Anton  Burgmiller  became  the  idol  of  the  Burg- 
miller  household  in  the  back  of  the  shop.  When 
Anton  was  twelve  he  was  his  father's  helper. 
A  little  square-headed,  square-shouldered, 
blue-eyed  boy  in  his  father's  old  overalls  went 
along  wherever  plumbing  was  to  be  done  and 
carried  a  heavy  bag  of  tools,  fittings  and  pipes 
on  his  back. 

When  little  Anton  was  sixteen  he  was  a  full- 
fledger  plumber.  Though  Hans  Burgmiller 
never  acknowledged  anybody  to  know  the 
trade  better  than  he  did  he  accepted  the  supe 
riority  of  his  son  when  modern  plumbing  meth 
ods  first  appeared  in  the  district. 

Water  was  piped  up  to  every  apartment  on 
every  floor,  and  baths  and  other  modern  con- 

147 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


veniences  were  installed.  That  was  a  bit  too 
complicated  for  Hans  Burgmiller  but  Anton 
took  to  it  like  a  duck  to  water.  Soon  after 
that  the  household  was  removed  from  back  of 
the  shop  to  the  first  floor,  to  make  place  for 
the  extension  of  business,  and  over  the  letters 
of  the  firm  were  painted  other  letters  in  red 
that  made  the  whole  thing  read  "Burgmiller  & 
Burgmiller,  Plumbers."  In  due  time,  perhaps 
a  little  prematurely  because  of  hard  work,  old 
man  Hans  died  and  was  buried.  But  Anton 
had  meanwhile  married  and  a  little  son  was 
soon  born  to  him.  He  named  him  Hans  in 
memory  of  his  father  and  as  he  expected  him 
to  continue  in  the  business  his  grandfather  had 
established  he  left  the  lettering  over  the  door. 

What  was  the  use  taking  it  off  when  he  will 
have  to  letter  it  again  in  a  few  years?  Per 
haps  this  item  of  economy  entered  into  the 
christening  of  the  little  boy,  because  the  moth 
er  wanted  the  boy  christened  after  her  father. 
But  she  was  overruled. 

Hans  went  to  school  with  a  lot  of  Irish  boys. 
148 


THE  STRENGTH  OF  THE  WEAK 

They  teased  him  about  his  Dutch  name  and 
twisted  it  so  until  it  became  a  horror  to  the  lit 
tle  boy.  The  result  was  that  when  the  time 
came  to  have  a  little  say  of  his  own  in  the  busi 
ness  the  last  two  syllables  from  the  name  were 
smeared  over  with  yellow  paint  and  the  firm's 
name  became  "Burg  &  Burg."  When  such  an 
expense  as  stationery  became  necessary  Hans 
was  proud  that  it  read  so  beautifully  "Burg  & 
Burg,  Plumbers  and  Fitters." 

The  building  trade  was  very  active.  The 
upper  floor  was  transformed  into  a  sort  of  of 
fice  in  which  Hans's  young  sister  presided  be 
hind  a  desk  on  which  stood  letter  files  reserved 
for  bills  and  receipts.  The  clinkety  clink  of 
the  typewriter  helped  the  song  of  the  hammer 
a  floor  below.  On  the  shelves,  nuts  and  bolts 
and  shiny  faucets.  On  the  floor-space,  leaning 
on  the  walls,  white  enameled  bath  tubs  and 
grey  slab  wash  tubs.  And  hanging  from  the 
ceiling,  a  multitude  of  chandeliers  in  brass  and 
oxidized  tin. 

The  firm  of  Burg  &  Burg  now  owned  a  horse 
149 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


and  wagon.  Several  workingmen  expected 
and  obtained  regularly  a  pay  envelope  every 
Saturday  afternoon. 

At  twenty-five  Hans  figured  that  he  was  en 
titled  to  a  family  of  his  own.  Especially  so 
because  his  sister  had  married  a  year  before 
one  of  his  workingmen  who  set  up  for  himself 
in  another  district  and  needed  her  help.  The 
firm  needed  a  capable  office  woman.  His 
mother  helped  him  look  around  for  a  capable 
wife.  They  were  successful.  Ana  Hirtenmay- 
er  pledged  her  troth  to  Hans  Burg.  The 
wedding  took  place  in  the  spring  and  on  the 
first  of  January  a  little  boy  was  born  and  they 
named  him  Anton.  But  notwithstanding  her 
household  duties  the  billing  and  the  books  of 
the  firm  was  kept  in  order  by  Mrs.  Burg  even 
if  she  had  to  work  until  after  midnight. 

It  seemed  for  a  while  that  the  Burgmiller 
race  was  to  rotate  eternally  around  the  two 
Christian  names,  Hans  and  Anton,  but  on  the 
third  year  another  son  was  born  to  them.  They 

150 


THE  STRENGTH  OF  THE  WEAK 

christened  him  Peter;  because  he  came  to  life 
on  St.  Peter's  Day. 

Years  passed.  The  family  received  several 
additions  one  after  another  at  a  year's  interval, 
all  girls,  and  then  again  a  boy  whom  they  chris 
tened  Louis.  Women  folks  never  counted  at 
all  in  the  Burgmiller  family.  They  were  re 
garded  as  reproducing  animals  only,  in  spite 
of  all  other  services  they  rendered. 

Anton  and  Peter  grew  rapidly  and  were  in 
overalls  before  they  had  reached  their  four 
teenth  year.  The  girls,  strong  and  fleshy, 
helped  keep  the  house  in  order  and  prepare  the 
meals  for  the  whole  family.  Hans  Burg  was 
proud  of  them. 

But  little  Louis,  the  youngest  of  the  brood, 
did  not  develop  like  his  brothers  and  sisters. 
His  chest  was  narrow.  His  muscles  flabby. 
His  legs  thin.  He  could  not  lift  any  weight 
to  speak  of.  A  change  of  weather  threw  him 
in  bed.  After  he  was  doctored  by  the  mother 
with  roots  and  herbs  the  medicus  was  called 
in.  It  happened  at  least  twice  a  week.  His 

151 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


bills  were  even  larger  than  a  plumber's.  There 
never  was  a  week  in  which  Louis  did  not  cause 
a  large  extra  expense.  As  little  and  small  as 
he  was,  he  was  the  dead  weight  that  dragged 
them  all  down.  They  had  to  economize  for  his 
sake.  Leberwurst  became  a  luxury  instead 
of  a  staple  article  on  the  table  of  the  Burg  fam 
ily.  And  just  because  Louis  was  so  puny  and 
weak  the  mother  and  the  father  loved  him  more 
than  any  of  the  other  children.  It  was  as  if  the 
whole  family  lived  for  nothing  else  than  to  ex 
piate  the  sin  of  Louis's  ailments. 

When  Louis  was  fourteen  years  old,  he  did 
not  don  overalls.  He  continued  school.  He 
had  the  best  of  clothes  and  the  best  of  foods. 
In  summer  time  he  was  sent  to  the  mountains 
with  his  mother  to  take  care  of  him.  Louis 
entered  High  School.  Anton,  his  oldest  broth 
er,  married  but  remained  with  the  firm,  draw 
ing  a  weekly  salary — a  smaller  one  than  he 
could  have  gotten  elsewhere.  Then  Peter  mar 
ried  and  began  to  draw  a  weekly  salary.  But 
neither  Anton  nor  Peter  were  as  husky  and 

152 


THE  STRENGTH  OF  THE  WEAK 

strong  as  they  might  have  been.  They  had 
worked  a  little  harder  and  fed  a  little  less  well 
than  it  was  good  for  them.  They  had  started 
work  too  soon  and  endured  too  many  priva 
tions  because  of  Louis's  continual  expensive 
existence. 

From  High  School  Louis,  still  nurtured  and 
doctored,  entered  college.  He  was  still  too 
weak  to  work.  His  older  sisters,  rosy,  carnate 
Gretchens,  withered  away  working  hard  and 
living  loveless  lives  because  of  the  expense  of 
Louis's  upkeep. 

Louis,  as  a  college  man,  began  to  look  down 
upon  all  of  them.  In  natty  suit  and  clean  lin 
en,  supplied  with  money,  as  much  as  he  wanted 
because  they  dared  not  contradict  the  "poor 
sick  boy,"  he  associated  only  with  the  gentle 
men  of  the  college.  His  brothers  were  just  or 
dinary  workingmen;  ill  mannered  and  igno 
rant.  The  time  came  when  father  Hans  was 
called  to  his  Maker.  The  Burgmillers  were 
not  of  a  long-living  stock.  And  when  the  will 
was  opened,  everything  belonged  to  the  "poor 

153 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


weak  Louis,  who  was  not  able  to  work  like  his 
strong  brothers." 

"Poor  weak  Louis"  became  the  owner  of 
the  Burg  &  Burg  establishment  founded  on  the 
sweat  of  four  generations.  And  because  he 
was  too  weak  to  work  himself,  his  broad  shoul 
dered  brothers  had  sunken  cheeks,  bent  backs, 
while  Louis,  the  prosperous  Louis  Burg, 
exhibits  his  flashy  clothes  and  his  learning. 


154 


SOCIALISTS!  BE  WARE  OF  MRS. 
ROSENBERG 

A  MISTAKEN  idea  floats  about  that  the 
whole  east  side  is  socialistic.  I  made  a 
special  investigation  to  find  out  how  it  stood. 
I  found  some  men  who  were  still  Socialists, 
some  who  had  been,  some  who  still  pretended 
to  be,  some  still  clinging  to  it  as  a  profession. 

But  nowhere  did  I  find  any  one  hating  the 
doctrine  so  profoundly  as  on  Third  Street  and 
Second  Avenue,  where  lives  Mrs.  Rachael  Ros 
enberg.  She  rents  out  furnished  rooms.  The 
first  thing  she  asked  me  when  I  applied  for  a 
room  was: 

"Are  you  a  Socialist?  If  you  are,  I  don't 
want  you.  If  you  are  not,  we  will  talk  busi 


ness." 


"I  am  not  a  Socialist,"  I  told  her.  "Still,  I 
never  heard  of  people  refusing  them  as  board 
ers!" 

155 


DUST  OF  NEW  YOliK 


"I  suppose  you  know  all  about  Socialism 
from  books,"  Mrs.  Rosenberg  put  in  sneering- 
ly.  "But  I  tell  you  one  never  knows  anybody 
or  anything  until  you  come  in  close  contact 
with  'em.  I  will  only  go  and  see  that  the  stew 
does  not  burn,  and  after  I  will  tell  you  what  I 
know." 

And  this  is  the  story  as  she  told  it  to  me: 

"My  husband's  name  is  Moritz  Rosenberg. 
We  came  here  in  President  Cleveland's  time — 
which  is  more  than  you  and  many  others  could 
say.  At  home  he  was — what's  the  use  to  tell 
you  what!  Here  he  became  a  cloak  operator. 
After  the  Cleveland  financial  crisis,  when  men 
died  of  starvation,  I  decided  to  help  out  my 
Moritz.  We  lived  on  Catharine  Street,  near 
the  river,  in  two  rooms  only.  I  put  out  a 
shingle  'Boarders  Wanted,'  and  got  two  the 
same  day.  I  bought  a  double  bed  for  them. 
Each  one  paid  four  dollars  a  month,  so  my 
whole  rent  cost  me  two  dollars.  And  that  was 

156 


SOCIALISTS !  BEWARE  OF  MRS.  ROSENBERG 

not  all.  I  gave  them  breakfast  and  supper  for 
two  dollars  a  week.  Things  were  cheap  then. 
I  actually  earned  our  food. 

"Why  shouldn't  a  woman  help  her  husband 
especially  if  God  has  not  given  her  any  chil 
dren?  Well,  after  a  while  we  moved  out  to  a 
bigger  apartment  on  Monroe  Street,  four 
rooms  with  bath  and  all  other  conveniences. 
So  I  rented  two  more  rooms  to  four  more  peo 
ple.  It  gave  me  a  lot  of  work,  but  we  saved 
all  my  Moritz  earned  and  more. 

"He  had  a  steady  job  at  Kuntzman's  and 
worked  there  year  in,  year  out.  He  had  start 
ed  with  Kuntzman's  and  worked  there — yes, 
strike  or  no  strike,  good  season,  slack  season, 
fourteen  dollars  a  week  every  week. 

"I  treat  my  boarders  well,  so  that  once 
moved  in  no  one  moves  out,  unless  his  wife 
comes  from  Europe  or  he  marries,  if  he  is  a 
single  man.  I  shall  live  many  years  for  each 
dollar  I  made  as  a  marriage  broker — and  every 
couple  as  happy  as  could  be. 

157 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


"Well,  one  day  I  lost  a  boarder.  He  had  his 
foot  caught  in  a  machine.  They  took  him  to 
the  hospital  at  noon,  and  in  the  evening  he  was 
dead. 

"It  was  too  bad.  He  was  a  nice  fellow.  But 
I,  who  was  I  to  mourn  him?  I  paid  sixteen 
dollars  rent.  So  I  put  out  a  shingle  the  same 
day  'Boarders  wanted.'  On  the  next  day  I  got 
a  new  boarder.  I  was  not  particular  then.  Es 
pecially  when  I  saw  a  nice  clean  young  man, 
with  teeth  as  white  as  grains  of  polished  rice; 
and  a  voice  he  had  like  silk,  like  pure  silk,  so 
soft  and  nice.  He  did  not  bargain,  he  did  not 
talk.  Five  dollars  a  month,  five  dollars.  I 
asked  him  what  time  he  had  to  get  up  in  the 
morning,  because  if  he  had  to  get  up  later  than 
the  other  bedfellow,  he  should  sleep  near  the 
wall,  not  to  be  disturbed,  or  if  he  had  to  get  up 
earlier  the  other  will  sleep  near  the  wall.  He 
did  not  care.  It  was  all  fixed  up  and  in  the 
evening  he  brought  his  trunk.  It  was  as  heavy 
as  stone — full  of  books. 

158 


SOCIALISTS !  BEWARE  OF  MRS.  ROSENBERG 

"After  supper  my  other  boarders  used  to  sit 
at  a  game  of  cards.  Not  that  they  were  gam 
blers,  but  what  else  should  they  have  done? 
They  drank  tea,  soda  water,  a  can  of  beer  some 
times.  Sometimes  my  Moritz  sat  with  them 
for  a  while — just  to  make  them  feel  at  home. 
Believe  me,  I  did  not  lose  at  them.  They  paid 
for  tea  and  sugar.  Why  shouldn't  they?  Was 
I  their  mother  ?  In  America  one  has  to  pay  for 
everything. 

"But  that  new  boarder  I  got,  he  wouldn't 
play  cards  and  wouldn't  drink  beer.  He  sat 
in  a  corner  and  read  books  till  late  at  night. 

"Then  after  a  few  weeks  the  others,  too, 
stopped  playing  cards.  They  all  sat  up  late 
in  the  night  and  talked.  The  new  boarder  was 
explaining  all  the  time  how  their  bosses  got 
richer  every  day.  Every  night  the  same  thing. 
He  was  a  Socialist. 

"My  husband  was  very  busy,  worked  over 
time,  Sundays,  whole  nights.  It  was  already 
fourteen  years  that  he  worked  for  Kuntzman, 

159 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


and  we  had  put  aside  a  nice  little  Sum  of 
money. 

"One  evening  my  Moritz  came  home  very 
angry.  Kuntzman  had  engaged  a  new  fore 
man,  an  Italian  fellow,  and  the  two  of  them, 
my  husband  and  he,  couldn't  agree.  After 
supper,  I  told  him  to  go  to  sleep,  but  he  did 
not  want  to.  He  went  in  to  talk  with  the 
boarders.  I  went  to  bed.  Late  at  night  Mor 
itz  came  in. 

"  'You  sleep,'  he  said. 

"  'What  is  it?' 

"  'You  know,  that  new  boarder  is  perfectly 
right  in  what  he  says  about  bosses !'  Moritz  said 
to  me. 

"  'What  do  you  mean?'  I  asked. 

'Them  bosses  are  making  piles  of  money,' 
he  explained  to  me  as  clear  as  day ;  'they  make 
on  the  men  at  least  fifty  per  cent.  Look  at 
Kuntzman,'  he  said.  'He  started  out  with  two 
machines,  now  he  has  four  hundred.  That  So 
cialist  is  right;  the  bosses  are  getting  rich.' 

160 


SOCIALISTS !  BEWARE  OF  MRS.  ROSENBERG 

"I  told  him  to  go  to  sleep  and  not  bother 
about  other  people's  fortune,  but  my  Moritz 
could  not  sleep  the  whole  night. 

"The  next  evening  he  went  again  in  the 
boarders'  room  to  hear  the  Socialist  talk.  When 
he  came  in  to  sleep  he  told  me : 

"'That  Socialist  is  absolutely  right.  He 
proved  by  his  books.  Peshe !  do  you  know  what 
I  will  do?' 

"'What?'  I  asked. 

"  'Since  bosses  are  getting  rich,  I  will  be 
come  a  boss.  The  Socialists  are  right.' 

"With  the  money  we  had  both  worked  so 
hard  to  save,  Moritz  Rosenberg  opened  a  shop 
with  a  partner,  also  one  of  our  boarders  who 
put  in  his  money.  And  in  one  year  we  lost 
all  we  had. 

"He  had  to  go  and  beg  Mr.  Kuntzman  to 
take  him  on  again.  I  am  again  taking  board 
ers. 

"But  no  Socialist  liar  will  ever  cross  my 
threshold,  and  if  I  lay  my  hands  on  that  one — 
if  ever  I  see  him,  with  his  flowing  necktie  and 

161 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


book  under  his  arm,  going  around  to  poor  peo 
ple  to  tell  them  such  lies!  Fourteen  years  of 
our  work  gone  on  account  of  him — fourteen 
years." 

A  sharp  chocky  odor  of  burning  meat,  her 
stew  on  the  stove,  drove  her  to  the  kitchen.  I 
tiptoed  out  of  the  room,  ran  down  the  stairs 
and  kept  on  running  for  blocks  and  blocks,  for 
fear  of  Mrs.  Rosenberg. 


162 


A  CONFLICT  OF  IDEALS 

IN  matters  musical  Silvio  Romano  is  the  au 
thority  of  Mulberry  Street.  His  two  hun 
dred  and  fifty  pounds  of  flesh  add  weight  to 
his  opinion.  When  there  are  no  customers  in 
his  shop,  when  he  is  not  busy  honing  or  strop 
ping  his  razors,  he  is  sitting  on  two  chairs, 
guitar  in  hand,  playing  and  singing  to  his 
heart's  content. 

Mulberry  Street,  "Little  Italy"  of  the  down 
town  east  side,  is  a  very  busy  street — so  busy, 
indeed,  it  makes  one  suspicious.  Young  men 
walk  up  and  down  the  sidewalk,  calling  to  each 
other;  the  pastry  shops,  wine  shops  and  cafes 
are  always  full  of  people  talking  about  every 
thing,  and  the  "barbieri"  are,  as  they  have  al 
ways  been,  the  centers  of  art,  literature  and 
politics. 

After  Angelo,  Silvio  Romano's  son,  was 
163 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


drafted  into  the  army,  the  father  felt  the  loss 
threefold — the  son,  the  helper,  and  the  flutist. 
Angelo  was  all  these  to  him.  As  a  son,  there 
was  none  more  dutiful  than  the  boy.  As  a 
barber,  people  came  from  uptown  to  have  their 
hair  cut  by  Angelo  Romano ;  he  was  a  real  art- 
tist  in  his  line.  But  as  a  flutist  he  surpassed 
himself  in  all  other  qualities.  All  musical  dis 
putes  were  quickly  settled  by  Romano's  calling 
upon  his  son  to  illustrate  the  particular  pas 
sages  in  dispute,  of  "Lucia  de  Lammermoor 
or  "II  Barbiere  de  Sevilla."  And  Angelo 
would  leave  the  half-shaved  customer  in  the 
chair  to  do  his  filial  duty — to  uphold  the  older 
Romano's  authority. 

The  duos  father  and  son  played  together 
were  the  joy  of  the  neighborhood,  ten  blocks 
around.  The  select  ones — Luigi  the  banker, 
Marino  the  olive  oil  dealer,  and  other  "no- 
tabiles" — sat  inside  the  shop  smoking  their 
cigars,  while  ordinary  folk  stood  outside  near 
the  window.  Young  couples  sat  on  the  door 
sill,  holding  hands  and  humming  softly  the 

164 


A  CONFLICT  OF  IDEALS 


tunes  played  inside.  The  duo  finished,  Mul 
berry  Street  applauded  generously.  And 
when  Mulberry  Street  applauds,  even  the 
Manhattan  Bridge  shakes  from  the  concus 
sion. 

Angelo  gone,  Romano  suffered  tremend 
ously.  But  he  had  to  engage  help.  There  was 
none  to  be  found,  so  he  inserted  the  follow 
ing  advertisement  in  an  Italian  daily  news 
paper: 

"Artist  barber  wanted  in  a  first-class  ton- 
sorial  parlor.  One  with  musical  talents  pre 
ferred." 

A  week  later,  Salvatore  Gonfarone,  dislik 
ing  to  return  to  his  former  shop  because  he  was 
exempted  from  military  sendee  on  account  of 
an  infirmity  of  which  he  had  not  previously 
been  aware,  applied  for  the  job. 

The  place  made  no  impression  on  him.  It 
was  not  like  the  one  he  had  abandoned.  He 
would  not  have  accepted  it;  but  while  he  was 
talking  with  his  prospective  employer,  Rosita, 
Silvio's  daughter,  entered  the  shop.  Salva- 

165 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


tore's  heart  was  struck.  Thumb  and  forefin 
ger  of  the  left  hand  rose  to  curl  his  little  black 
mustache,  while  the  right  palm  met  the  open 
hand  of  Romano.  "Sta  bene,  signore!"  And 
there  and  then  he  donned  the  newly  laundered 
white  jacket  which  Angelo  used  to  wear. 

Rosita  only  came  to  see  whether  any  mail 
had  arrived.  She  disappeared  as  quickly  as 
she  came.  Romano  sat  in  the  chair  to  give  Sal- 
vatore  a  trial.  It  was  a  dream!  or,  as  Ro 
mano  himself  said  to  his  wife  about  the  new 
helper's  razor  hand,  "as  light  as  a  gentle 
breeze."  Indeed,  he  was  so  pleased  with  the 
young  man's  work  that  he  forgot  to  inquire 
about  his  musical  abilities. 

Silvio  Romano  was  due  for  a  surprise ;  that 
same  evening  Salvatore  sang  in  a  most  beauti 
ful  mellow  baritone  voice  an  aria  from  "Rig- 
oletto."  Romano's  fingers  struck  the  tense 
strings  of  his  guitar  with  vigor.  The  old  Ital 
ian  was  happy. 

Banker  and  grocer  and  the  other  "notabili" 
came  again,  and  the  sidewalk  was  so  crowded 

166 


A  CONFLICT  OF  IDEALS 


with  people  the  policeman  on  the  beat  thought 
Mulberry  Street  feuds  were  aflame. 

But  the  greatest  triumph  of  Salvatore  was 
yet  to  come.  Rosita  in  her  best  blue  silk  dress, 
and  Madame  Romano  herself,  entered  the 
shop.  The  young  girl  stood  timidly  in  a  cor 
ner,  the  Latin  impulsiveness  checked  by  her 
American  training.  The  introduction  was  not 
slow  to  come,  and  in  a  few  well-chosen  words 
Salvatore  paid  his  compliments  to  both  mother 
and  daughter. 

In  a  few  days  the  news  of  Romano's  great 
find  spread  all  over  town.  The  two  men  got 
to  be  so  busy  there  was  no  time  to  sing  and 
play  during  the  day.  Rosita,  red  flower  in  her 
thick  raven  hair,  visited  the  shop  quite  fre 
quently.  Her  black  eyes  spoke  quite  dis 
tinctly,  and  once  Salvatore  even  thought  she 
mimicked  a  kiss  to  him.  But  there  was  no 
chance  to  say  a  word.  Silvio  Romano  began 
to  make  plans  for  a  third  chair. 

The  evenings  were  gorgeous.  Salvatore 
sang  "like  a  god." 

167 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


Springtime  in  Mulberry  Street  is  like  no 
where  else.  It  finds  there  a  most  receptive 
mood,  and  there  is  no  sweeter  perfume  in  any 
flower  than  the  odor  wafted  by  human  happi 
ness — as  though  every  inhabitant  carried  in 
his  bosom  the  gardens  of  Tuscany.  It  is 
primavera — the  primavera  of  the  Italy  of 
Parma  violets  and  lush  red  roses. 

Salvatore  Gonfarone  pined  away  in  his  de 
sire  to  speak  to  Rosita.  But  youth,  love  and 
luck  are  on  very  friendly  terms. 

Silvio  Romano  took  sick  one  day — nothing 
very  serious,  a  toothache.  Salvatore  was  not 
going  to  lose  his  chance.  When  Rosita  came 
to  the  shop  he  kissed  her. 

"Oh,  Salvatore!" 

"Oh,  Rosita  mio!" 

It  was  just  two  weeks  after  they  had  first 
seen  each  other.  Rosita  made  it  her  business 
to  come  ten  times  that  day.  A  few  cuts  on  the 
faces  of  customers  bore  witness  to  the  young 
man's  distraction. 

168 


A  CONFLICT  OF  IDEALS 


The  next  day  Romano,  feeling  much  better, 
was  in  the  shop  again. 

Toward  noon  there  was  an  idle  hour,  and  the 
two  men  sat  down  to  talk  music.  It  soon  de 
veloped  into  a  quarrel.  Romano  was  an  ad 
mirer  of  the  old  Italian  school  of  Rossini  and 
Donizetti;  Salvatore  Gonfarone  bowed  at  the 
shrine  of  Verdi  and  Puccini. 

"Pah!    Rossini  was  nothing  but  a " 

"Basta,  Signor!  Rossini  was  the  greatest 
master.  Your  Puccinis  are  nothing  but  noise 
makers." 

"And  you  love  Rossini  only  because  you  can 
play  his  things  on  the  guitar." 

It  was  a  very  insolent  remark!  Silvio  Ro 
mano  checked  himself  with  difficulty.  To  dis 
pute  his  musical  authority  so  sneeringly  was 
the  height  of  impudence.  But  Salvatore  was 
such  a  good  barber !  Romano  let  go  a  cutting 
answer : 

"And  you  love  Puccini  because  he  gives  you 
the  opportunity  to  shout  stupid  arias." 

Some  customers  interrupted  the  dispute. 
169 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


During  the  next  few  hours  Salvatore 
thought  how  to  evade  a  disaster  with  the  father 
of  Rosita.  He  loved  the  girl;  yesterday's 
kisses  were  still  on  his  lips.  Yet  he  could  not, 
on  account  of  that,  change  his  musical  opinions ! 
The  idea  of  the  old  wire  plucker!  Let  him 
stick  to  his  Rossini  and  Donizetti  as  much  as 
he  wants  to,  but  not  impose  such  ideas  on  him, 
on  Salvatore  Gonfarone,  who  knew  more  about 
music  than  a  hundred  Romanos ! 

It  was  a  hard  battle  between  love  and  ar 
tistic  ideals. 

Silvio  Romano  was  terribly  incensed.  Sev 
eral  times  he  made  up  his  mind  to  tell  the  youth 
they  had  reached  the  parting  point.  To  dare 
sneer  at  Rossini !  Rossini,  the  greatest  master 
of  them  all — the  god  of  music!  let  alone  Doni 
zetti—it  was  nothing  less  than  sacrilege. 

After  those  thoughts  had  had  their  sway, 
more  practical  ones  presented  themselves.  Ro 
mano  thought  of  the  difficulty  to  find  another 
man.  Salvatore  was  such  a  good  barber! 

170 


A  CONFLICT  OF  IDEALS 


A  hard  battle  between  business  and  artistic 
ideals,  indeed! 

There  was  no  music  that  evening,  because 
there  was  no  harmony  between  the  two. 

The  banker  and  the  other  "notabili"  came, 
in  vain. 

Salvatore  took  his  hat  and  cane,  and  saying 
very  politely,  "Buona  sera,"  he  left  the  shop. 

"What's  the  trouble  with  Salvatore?"  they 
all  asked. 

"He  is  crazy,"  Romano  answered.  They  un 
derstood  something  had  gone  wrong  between 
the  two,  so  the  talk  was  switched  on  the  war. 

Rosita  came  and  turned  pale  when  she  did 
not  see  the  young  man.  The  absence  of  his 
hat  and  cane  caused  the  girl  despair. 

Said  the  banker  to  Romano  at  parting: 

"If  it's  a  question  of  a  few  dollars  more  a 
week,  I  would  advise  you " 

"Nothing  of  the  kind,  banchiere.  Money 
means  nothing  to  me.  I  have1  ideals,  high 

ideals,  which  this  impudent Think  of  that! 

To  dare  sneer  at  Rossini!  II  grande  maestro! 

171 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


The  compositore  of  the  'Barbiere  de  Sevilla,' 
and  many  another  capo  d'opera.  He  will  have 
to  apologize,  or  I  never  want  to  see  him  again!" 

"Yes,  yes,"  the  banker  insisted — "youth  is 
impudent,  but  Salvatore's  razor  hand  and  his 
voice  bring  business." 

"It  means  nothing  to  me.  He  will  have  to 
apologize  if  he  wants  to  work  in  my  shop." 

The  next  day,  Saturday,  the  two  artists  were 
too  busy  to  talk  music.  Fire  hung  between 
them.  Rosita  came  in  early,  all  flushed,  and 
sent  Salvatore  a  meaning-full  glance.  Ro 
mano  ordered  her  out  very  gruffly.  Salvatore 
was  mad  with  anger.  How  dare  this  Rossini 
fanatic  speak  to  Rosita,  to  his  beautiful  Ro 
sita,  in  such  a  way! 

She  did  not  return  the  whole  day. 

In  the  evening  Salvatore  again  made  ready 
to  go.  He  had  planned  to  leave  definitely,  and 
find  some  "sub  rosa"  way  to  speak  to  Rosita. 
Yet  he  changed  his  mind  at  the  last  minute. 
There  was  danger.  He  could  not  lose  the  girl. 
He  decided  to  bide  his  time. 

172 


A  CONFLICT  OF  IDEALS 


He  had  hardly  started  to  take  off  the  white 
jacket  when  Romano  spoke  to  him. 

"Young  man,  you  will  have  to  apologize  or 
leave  my  shop  for  good.  It  is  true  you  are  a 
very  good  barber,  an  artist,  and  I  was  ready 
to  increase  your  wages  of  my  own  good  will. 
But  I  have  ideals.  You  have  insulted  my  mas 
ters — my  great  masters " 

Romano's  voice  quivered  with  emotion.  His 
eyes  were  moist.  He  was  deeply  grieved.  It 
touched  Salvatore  as  nothing  ever  did.  Throw 
ing  both  arms  around  the  old  man's  neck,  he 
kissed  him,  crying: 

"Silvio  Romano,  soul  of  an  artist!  amo 
d'artiste!  I  love  you,  I  honor  you.  But  I  too 
have  artistic  ideals.  I  love  Rosita — but  you 
will  not  permit  that  I  debase  myself,  that  I  lie 
to  you  for  her  sake?" 

Both  men  cried. 

They  never  again  talked  about  the  different 
masters;  instead,  they  played  their  music 
nightly.  And  after  a  time,  they  occasionally 
bowed  each  at  the  other's  shrine. 

173 


THE  HOLY  HEALER  FROM  OMSK 

FROM  Fourth  Street  to  the  confines  of 
14th  Street  below  First  Avenue  and  the 
East  River  is  one  of  the  Russian  districts  in 
New  York.  It  is  inhabited  to  a  great  extent 
by  Russian  laborers.  The  Russian  "Inteli- 
gentsia"  of  New  York  is  so  busy  talking  about 
the  people,  the  "narod,"  it  has  had  no  time  to 
go  and  see  and  talk  with  the  people. 

The  odor  of  cooked  cabbage  and  burned  fats 
dissolves  into  the  stronger  odors  of  the  oiled 
high  boots  and  the  numerous  Russian  steam 
baths  of  the  district.  Ah,  these  steam  baths! 
From  the  looks  of  them  and  the  smell  one 
comes  to  think  of  them  more  as  sewers  than 
baths.  A  hundred  little  "Cuchnias,"  restaur 
ants  with  their  vapored  windows  and  sawdust 
floors  proclaim  the  fact  that  most  of  the  inhab 
itants  of  the  district  are  here  without  their 

174 


THE  HOLY  HEALER  FROM  OMSK 

families  and  therefore  thrown  upon  the  ill- 
smelling  and  meanly-cooked  foodstuffs  of  those 
eating  places. 

The  whole  week  the  streets  and  houses  are 
very  quiet ;  only  the  occasional  quarrel  between 
two  restaurateurs  and  their  wives  disturbs  the 
peace.  The  tired  workers  sleep.  But  on  Sat 
urday  night  the  Russian  temperament  breaks 
loose.  The  windows  of  every  front  room  are 
lit  and  from  the  street  one  sees  plainly  the  dec 
orations  on  the  walls ;  red  and  blue  serpentines 
cross  the  ceiling  and  are  wrapped  around  the 
chandeliers;  a  few  pictures  in  color,  cut  out 
from  some  illustrated  paper  or  magazine;  a 
few  gayly  colored  hand  embroidered  towels 
are  fixed  with  pins  on  the  wall  above  the  man 
telpiece  on  which  are  a  few  pieces  of  cheap 
glassware  in  that  milkish  green  held  in  so  much 
affection  by  the  Lithuanians.  And  inside  the 
rooms,  to  the  creaking  sound  of  a  concertina, 
the  Russians  dance  and  sing  their  national 
songs.  Here  and  there  some  American  song 
breaks  loose,  but  this  only  happens  early  in  the 

175 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


evening  when  things  are  yet  on  their  surface. 
Later  in  the  night  when  drink  has  sobered  and 
deepened  the  children  of  the  Volga  they  sing 
only  dirges,  linking  one  to  another  until  the 
whole  district  is  permeated  in  an  undulating 
melancholy  for  which  no  God  and  no  man 
could  account. 

In  this  district  lived  Stephan  Ivanoff.  Ste- 
phan  came  to  New  York  with  a  reputation. 
People  said  he  had  escaped  from  Siberia  by 
flight,  and  people  also  said  that  he  was  sent  to 
Siberia  because  of  the  jealousy  of  a  doctor. 
Stephan  was  not  a  doctor ;  he  was  a  healer. 

Stephan  was  a  big,  heavy  dark  bearded  man 
with  two  shrewd  little  eyes  in  his  head  and  a 
mouth  which  always  looked  as  though  it  just 
finished  eating  some  savory  morsel.  He  kept 
to  his  Russian  custom  and  went  every  Satur 
day  night  to  the  Russian  bath.  In  the  in 
timacy  of  the  common  bathroom  he  told  stories 
and  anecdotes  which  elicited  broad  laughter 

176 


THE  HOLY  HEALER  FROM  OMSK 

and  made  many  friends  to  the  newcomer  from 
Siberia. 

Incidentally  Stephan  Ivanoff  gave  some 
health  hints  to  his  friends.  "First  of  all,  don't 
eat  eggs;  don't  eat  any  eggs,"  he  said,  "they 
are  just  poisoning  your  blood.  If  you  have 
eaten  even  one  egg  in  the  last  four,  five  years, 
it  will  come  out  some  day  in  a  swelling  of  the 
neck  or  in  some  other  boil  on  the  legs  and 


arms." 


And  one  day  Vasilenko,  the  owner  of  one 
of  the  restaurants  of  the  district,  had  such  a 
swelling  on  the  neck.  His  wife  called  a  doc 
tor,  a  regular  M.  D.,  who  prescribed  rest,  hot 
water  applications  and  other  such  truck.  It 
did  not  help  very  much  and  Mrs.  Vasilenko 
complained  to  a  customer. 

"A  swelling  on  the  neck?"  the  customer  said 
as  he  wiped  his  mouth  with  the  back  of  his 
hand,  "why,  poor  Vasilenko  is  poisoned!" 

Several  other  customers  approached  Serzei's 
table  and  Serzei  explained  with  even  greater 

177 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


details  all  he  knew,  all  he  had  heard  from  the 
mouth  of  Stephan  Ivanoff,  that  mysterious 
man  who  had  escaped  from  Siberia  where  he 
had  had  the  great  fortune  to  meet  a  holy  man 
from  Omsk  who  taught  him  all  about  diseases 
and  foods  and  their  poisons. 

The  upshot  of  it  all  was  that  they  went  scur 
rying  for  Stephan  Ivanoff  and  brought  him  to 
the  bedside  of  Vasilenko.  Stephan  looked  the 
sick  man  over,  held  his  pulse  for  quite  a  while, 
then  declared  that  Vasilenko  was  poisoned.  He 
ordered  all  the  bottles  of  medicine  thrown 
away  in  his  very  presence  before  he  would  start 
anything. 

"The  case  is  a  very  serious  one,"  he  said, 
"but  I  will  try  to  use  whatever  gifts  I  have," 
and  he  started  immediately  the  old  process  of 
dry-cupping  the  patient.  One  after  the  other 
the  little  cupping  glasses  applied  to  the  swollen 
part  filled  with  the  brown  blue  flesh  they 
sucked  in.  The  patient  groaned  but  Ivanoff 
assured  him  it  was  better  than  death  and  tor 
tured  him  the  rest  of  the  night.  In  the  morn- 

178 


THE  HOLY  HEALER  FROM  OMSK 

ing  Stephan  obtained  a  few  particularly  active 
and  hungry  leeches  which  he  posed  to  suck  out 
the  "bad  blood"  from  Vasilenko's  arms  and 
legs.  After  eight  days  and  eight  nights  he  re 
stored  Vasilenko  to  health  and  guaranteed  that 
not  a  drop  of  poisoned  blood  had  remained  in 
the  man's  body. 

The  news  spread  that  Ivanoff  had  saved 
Vasilenko's  life,  and  the  reputation  of  the 
quack  grew  daily.  According  to  Ivanoff's  the 
ory,  almost  everybody's  blood  was  poisoned. 
They  were  all  sick  people.  He  took  the  pulse 
of  every  one,  listened  carefully  and  then  drop 
ped  the  hand  with  a  little  eloquent  gesture  that 
set  one  despairing  more  than  if  the  death  pen 
alty  had  been  pronounced. 

"Stephan  Ivanoff,  what  is  the  matter  with 
me?" 

"Alexis  Vasilewitch,  your  pulse  tells  me 
that  you  are  a  very  sick  man." 

"It's  true  Stephan  Ivanoff  that  I  feel  a  littk 
tired,  but  I  thought  that  it  was  hard  work." 

179 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


Stephan  never  insisted.  It  was  his  trick  nev 
er  to  insist.  He  knew  human  nature  too  well 
to  insist.  He  just  made  a  little  gesture  and 
passed  on  to  pleasanter  topics,  but  he  was  sure 
that  Alexis  Vasilewitch,  br  whoever  it  was, 
would  come  around  at  the  end  of  the  conversa 
tion  at  the  dinner  table  at  Vasilenko's  and  ask : 
"Stephan  Ivanoff,  what  shall  I  do?" 

And  the  next  day,  or  on  Saturday  the  man 
was  dry-cupped,  blood-sucked,  massaged  and 
given  to  drink  strange-tasting  mixtures  brewed 
over  an  alcohol  lamp.  A  few  weeks'  treatment 
and  the  man  was  healed. 

Stephan  Ivanoff  had  saved  another  life. 

Things  went  on  in  such  a  way  for  years. 
The  several  doctors  established  in  the  district 
starved  and  Stephan  Ivanoff  became  rich. 
From  Vasilenko's  restaurant  spread  tales  of 
marvellous  recoveries  from  all  kinds  of  diseases 
which  the  healer  discovered  as  soon  as  he  felt 
the  man's  pulse.  It  was  as  if  the  holy  man 
from  Omsk  had  himself  sent  Stephan  Ivanoff 

180 


THE  HOLY  HEALER  FROM  OMSK 

to  New  York  to  save  all  the  poisoned  men. 
And  when  a  man  was  very  severely  ill  Stephan 
spoke  mysteriously  of  occult  communications 
with  the  man  "out  there"  and  gave  a  brew  of 
special  herbs  grown  on  the  tombs  of  holy  men 
and  ordered  Chinese  leeches  and  dry-cupped 
in  a  special  way  until  the  man  was  saved. 

Stephen  Ivanoff  furnished  his  apartment 
with  all  the  Russian  things  he  could  get  in  or 
der  to  impress  the  increasing  number  of  his 
visitors. 

The  priest  came  to  see  him  one  day  to  ad 
monish  him  about  a  little  scandal  with  Vasil- 
enko's  wife. 

Stephan  Ivanoff  kissed  the  hand  of  the  old 
man  and  as  he  held  it  between  the  pointer  and 
the  thumb  he  exclaimed  "Father,  don't  move!" 
Silently,  attentive,  with  the  hand  of  the  priest 
limply  between  his  fingers  he  said:  "Father 
Anton  Fevdoroff,  you  are  a  sick  man." 

"My  son,  I  have  come  to  speak  to  you  about 
other  things."  The  priest,  essaying  his  unctu 
ous  voice,  tried  to  set  things  right. 

181 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


Vasilenko  had  gone  to  Russia  to  visit  his 
parents,  and  his  wife,  the  rumor  spread,  fell  to 
the  healer's  spell.  Stephan  Ivanoff ,  the  heal 
er,  listened  to  the  priest's  admonition  to  the 
end  and  as  he  did  so  his  face  radiated  happi 
ness  ;  as  though  some  wonderfully  clear  visions 
were  descending  from  the  heavens  upon  him. 

"What  have  you  to  say,  son?" 

"That  God's  wisdom  is  seen  in  the  ways  of 
life ;  that  he  taketh  care  of  man  and  worm,  and 
that  no  action  and  no  thought  can  come  but 
that  He  had  willed  it,"  answered  Stephan 
Ivanoff,  in  religious  transport. 

"But  why  does  my  son  speak  now  about 
godliness,  when  I  come  to  censure  him  about 
his  immorality?" 

"In  Omsk,  father,  I  met  a  holy  man  who 
taught  me  many  things  before  I  came  here. 
In  five  years  I  have  not  met  you  once.  And 
because  you  are  also  a  holy  man  God  willed 
that  Vasilenko  go  to  Russia  and  I  be  exposed 
to  false  accusations  so  that  you  should  come  to 
me.  You  are  a  sick  man,  Anton  Fevdoroff — 

182 


I 


THE  HOLY  HEALER  FROM  OMSK 

your  pulse  tells  me  you  are  a  very  sick  man, 
that  you  have  been  poisoned." 

Father  Anton  Fevdoroff  maintained  that  he 
was  not  a  sick  man  but  the  thumb  and  the  fore 
finger  of  Stephan  Ivanoff  on  the  pulse  of  the 
man  knew  better.  A  few  days  later  the  priest 
sent  word  to  the  healer  that  he  should  come  to 
see  him.  Father  Fevdoroff  was  ill.  The  doc 
tor  had  prescribed  something  which  did  not 
seem  to  help  and  the  priest's  wife  was  despair 
ing.  Brought  up  in  a  little  village  in  Russia 
her  confidence  in  leeches  and  cupping  was 
much  stronger  than  in  the  official  medicine. 
Stephan's  methods  suited  her  and  as  the 
priest's  health  improved  under  his  treatment, 
Mother  Fevdoroff  went  into  ecstasies  over  the 
holy  man  from  Omsk: 

On  the  fourth  day  Ivanoff  said  to  the  priest : 

"Little  father,  your  pulse  is  wonderful  to 
day.  There  is  not  a  drop  of  bad  blood  left  in 
your  body." 

Father  Fevdoroff  thereafter  dropped  the 
Vasilenko  affair.  Ivanoff  shrewdly  refused 

183 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


payment  for  his  cure.  Mother  Fevdoroff 
spread  the  news  of  the  wonderful  cure  so  well 
that  the  healer  actually  overworked  himself 
every  day  feeling  the  pulses  of  his  patients. 

Hard  work  and  heavy  eating  began  to  tell 
on  Stephan.  After  a  particularly  heavy  meal 
on  a  Christmas  Eve  he  had  an  attack  of  indi 
gestion  in  the  house  of  a  friend. 

"Should  we  call  a  doctor,  Stephan  Ivanoff  ?" 

He  refused  at  first.  Had  he  not  denounced 
all  the  doctors  as  fakers!  But  when  the  cramps 
almost  killed  him  he  made  no  answer  as  the 
suggestion  to  call  a  doctor  was  made  again. 

The  old  practitioner  of  the  district  was 
brought  to  the  well  known  quack's  bedside. 
The  doctor  hoped  that  the  news  "the  quack 
called  a  doctor  when  ill"  might  loosen  the  heal 
er's  hold  on  the  people. 

Ivanoff  was  breathing  heavily.  The  doctor 
took  the  sick  man's  hand  to  feel  the  pulse. 
Suddenly  the  healer  snatched  his  hand  away, 

184 


THE  HOLY  HEALER  FROM  OMSK 

and  with  all  the  energy  at  his  command  ex 
claimed  : 

"Stop!  You  know  who  I  am?  Don't  we 
know  that  there  isrit  such  a  thing  as  a  pulse?" 
and  he  refused  to  be  treated. 

That  indigestion  killed  Stephan  Ivanoff . 

The  neighborhood  says :  Because  there  was 
not  another  man  in  New  York  who  had  met 
that  holy  man  from  Omsk. 


185 


HIRSH  ROTH'S  THEORY 

THE  Bronx,  between  Claremont  Parkway 
and  Bronx  Park,  has  known  Hirsh  Roth 
of  the  firm  of  Hirsh  Roth  &  Co.,  wholesale 
and  retail  liquor  dealers,  for  the  last  twenty 
years.  He  was  there,  a  believer  in  the  Bronx, 
when  it  was  yet  all  rocks  and  farms,  with  a 
few  scattered  wooden  shacks.  He  was  there 
when  the  downtown  people  moved  to  the  Bronx 
because  the  doctor  said  they  needed  country 
air  and  higher  ground. 

Roth  saved  up  a  few  dollars  sewing  pants 
the  whole  day  and  eating  herring  with  bread 
at  night.  His  wife  died  of  tuberculosis  on  such 
a  diet  after  she  gave  birth  to  a  man  child,  to 
Joseph,  who  is  now  the  anonymous  "&  Co."  of 
the  father's  business.  Hirsh  Roth  moved  to 
the  "country"  to  save  his  own  and  the  child's 
life.  But,  as  he  is  a  man  with  proselyting 

186 


HIRSH  ROTH'S  THEORY 


tendencies,  he  came  downtown  to  the  local  of 
his  union  every  Saturday  night  to  persuade 
people  to  move  to  the  Bronx. 

He  was  at  that  time  affiliated  with  a  real  es 
tate  firm,  and  sold  lots  and  parcels  to  his  for 
mer  friends  and  co-workers.  Many  a  fashion 
able  house  is  now  raised  on  ground  he  sold. 
Former  pants  operators  own  them.  Half  of 
Bathgate  Avenue  and  Brook  Avenue  was  pop 
ulated  by  Hirsh  Roth's  efforts — ere  he  form 
ulated  a  new  theory:  "The  Bronx  was  becom 
ing  too  populated."  He  then  changed  his  busi 
ness  from  selling  real  estate  to  selling  liquor. 

Many  a  man  changes  his  business  for  ma 
terial  interest  only.  Not  so  Hirsh  Roth.  He 
always  requires  a  theory.  He  went  into  the 
family  liquor  business  to  prevent  drunken 
ness.  "When  a  man  has  a  little  something  at 
home  he  does  not  go  to  a  soloon,  that's  the 
idea." 

And  all  those  years  he  boarded  with  his 
child  in  the  house  of  a  friend,  a  house  builder. 
Hirsh  Roth  did  not  remarry;  he  had  a  theory 

187 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


for  that  also.     "Marriage  is  a  foolish  thing 
a  man  should  commit  only  once." 

The  builder,  Feldman,  had  a  daughter  the 
same  age  as  Joseph,  Roth's  son.  Before  either 
of  the  tots  could  utter  an  intelligible  word,  the 
parents  had  already  affianced  them.  Dowry 
and  everything  else  was  settled  between  the 
two  men,  and  a  special  glass  of  wine  drunk  to 
the  health  and  happiness  of  the  future  couple. 
Then  each  went  about  his  business  with  the 
feeling  of  a  man  who  has  cleared  his  mind  of 
earthly  cares. 

The  Bronx  grew  up  in  his  arms,  so  to  say. 
Early  mornings  he  went  to  see  how  his  "baby" 
developed.  Every  house  was  built  under  his 
eye.  It  mattered  not  whether  it  was  his  build 
ing  or  not.  If  he  thought  the  style  or  the  ma 
terial  was  not  what  it  ought  to  be  he  gave  no 
peace  to  the  owner  or  the  builder.  Many  an 
architect's  blue  print  had  to  be  changed  at  his 
insistence.  The  depth  of  a  foundation  or  a 
brick  not  properly  fired  had  caused  him  many 
a  sleepless  night. 

188 


HIRSH  ROTH'S  THEORY 


"Mazel  Tow,  Feldman;  Josephson's  house 
is  finished" ;  or  "They  broke  ground  to-day  on 
Berger's  lot  near  Washington  Avenue,"  were 
frequent  greetings  when  he  came  home. 

Fanny  Feldman  and  Joseph  Roth  grew  up 
together  like  brother  and  sister.  They  fought 
and  quarrelled,  and  Mrs.  Feldman  made  no 
distinction  between  her  own  and  the  stranger 
when  she  administered  a  deserved  spanking. 
Then  came  the  period  when  the  high  school 
boy  hated  even  to  speak  to  a  girl.  Joseph  Roth 
refused  to  be  seen  with  Fanny  on  the  street, 
"because  I  am  not  a  sissy,"  and  thereupon  re 
ceived  a  beating  from  his  father. 

On  some  such  an  occasion  he  learned  that 
Fanny  was  to  be  his  wife. 

"We  are  not  in  Russia!"  he  cried.  "I  am  an 
American.  We  are  in  a  free  country.  What 
do  you  mean  by  choosing  for  me  a  girl?" 

He  got  another  beating  for  his  defiance.  As 
he  lay  on  his  cot  one  night  he  made  plans  how 
to  run  away  to  the  West  and  become  a  cow 
boy  pr  something. 

189 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


Fanny  was  a  beautiful  and  clever  girl. 
Though  Joseph's  behavior  was  very  insulting 
to  her,  she  agreed  with  the  spirit  of  his  revolt. 

Of  course  Joseph  was  not  to  be  compared 
with  some  of  the  young  fellows  she  knew. 
There  was  young  Reisin,  who  played  the  vio 
lin  so  beautifully;  and  that  long-haired,  al 
mond-eyed  Berger  boy,  who  had  several  poems 
printed  in  newspapers — all  the  girls  were  after 
him.  Joseph  had  no  such  qualities.  He  was 
not  artistic.  But  she  admired  his  spirit — in  an 
abstract  sense.  It  was  so  manly  of  him  not  to 
submit  to  the  will  of  his  father.  He  was  an 
American,  lord  and  master  of  his  own  actions, 
and  not  a  slave  or  hireling. 

Then  one  day  Joseph  disappeared  from  the 
house.  The  whole  night  the  police  of  the 
Bronx  and  Manhattan  were  kept  busy  trying 
to  find  the  sixteen-year-old  boy.  The  next  day 
his  picture  was  in  all  the  papers.  On  the  third 
day  he  was  brought  back  from  Philadelphia, 
still  an  unrepentant  sinner. 

190 


HIRSH  ROTH'S  THEORY 


Did  he  get  a  beating?  No,  but  on  the  next 
day  his  father  took  him  to  the  store. 

"No  more  school.  You  will  help  serve  the 
customers." 

Joseph  was  strong  and  willing,  and  was  soon 
managing  the  business.  But  there  was  no  day 
in  which  his  name  was  not  in  some  way  linked 
up  with  Fanny's.  For  so  many  years  Hirsh 
Roth  had  considered  the  matter  of  his  son's 
marriage  settled,  that  the  unsettling  of  this 
plan  was  a  calamity — as  if  a  sure  deal  for  a 
corner  lot  had  fizzled  out,  or  as  if  the  very 
Bronx  had  failed  in  some  way.  The  more  he 
insisted  the  more  the  boy  was  steeled  in  his  de 
cision.  He  wouldn't  even  sit  near  the  girl  at 
table.  He  never  even  smiled  to  her ;  he  snarled. 

One  day  they  were  alone. 

"Fanny,"  he  told  her,  "they  want  to  force  me 
to  marry  you,  and  I  don't  want  to — you  hear, 
I  don't  want  to,  Fanny.  I  was  never  asked 
at  all  whether  I  want  to  marry  you  or  not!" 

"You  are  perfectly  right,  Joseph.  They 
have  no  right  to  do  that.  We  are  in  America. 

191 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


We  are  not  in  Russia.  I  like  you,  we  will  stick 
to  our  guns."  And  Fanny  put  out  a  warm 
little  hand. 

This  short  interview  made  Joseph  happy. 
He  had  at  least  one  ally;  he  could  stand  his 
father's  importunities  much  more  easily, 
though  the  parent  presented  the  same  stubborn 
opposition  to  his  plans. 

Then  suddenly,  Hirsh  Roth  told  his  son, 
"We  are  moving  out  from  the  Feldmans'.  To 
do  what  he  did  to  me,  after  all  I  did  for  him 
in  all  these  years!  I  never  again  want  to  see 
a  Feldman  in  my  life,"  moaned  the  old  man 
disconsolately. 

That  very  night  father  and  son  moved  in  to 
Mrs.  Josephson's. 

For  the  first  time  Joseph  did  not  feel  at 
home.  The  Josephsons  were  very  friendly 
people;  Josephson  never  forgot  he  owed  his 
fortune  to  Hirsh  Roth's  advice.  But  they  were 
strangers.  They  called  Joseph  "Mr."  Roth. 
Even  the  hot  soup  lacked  warmth  after  that. 

Hirsh  Roth  went  to  a  meeting  of  his  lodge. 
192 


HIRSH  ROTH'S  THEORY 


Joseph  went  out  for  a  walk.  He  saw  Fanny 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street.  She  was 
strolling  leisurely  with  the  young  poet  Berger. 

He  saluted  her,  but  as  he  did  so  he  remem 
bered  his  father's  moanings  about  the  Feld- 
mans.  It  made  him  feel  very  sinful. 

The  next  few  days  Joseph  surprised  himself 
frequently  thinking  of  Fanny;  how  she  had 
shaken  hands  with  him  and  become  his  ally  on 
a  certain  proposition.  The  following  evenings 
his  father  kept  him  busy  in  the  store  till  late 
in  the  night.  For  a  full  month  Hirsh  managed 
to  keep  his  son  under  his  eye.  He  even  took 
him  to  a  lodge  meeting.  Joseph  began  to  sus 
pect  he  did  it  purposely  to  keep  him  away  from 
Fanny. 

He  met  her  on  the  Elevated  one  afternoon 
as  he  had  to  go  downtown  on  business. 

"Hello,  Miss  Feldman." 

"Oh!  Mr.  Roth,  glad  to  see  you  again,"  she 
responded  cheerily. 

And  they  shook  hands  like  old  friends  that 
have  not  met  in  a  long  time.  They  traveled  to- 

193 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


gather.  He  even  went  with  her  to  a  depart 
ment  store  where  she  bought  some  notions. 
They  talked  about  many  things,  and  she  man 
aged  to  sell  him  a  ticket  for  the  next  musicale 
of  the  synagogue. 

"Will  you  be  there,  Miss  Feldman?" 

"Of  course." 

All  through  the  winter  they  met  here  and 
there,  and  every  time  they  learned  to  know 
each  other  better.  It  was  enough  that  she 
should  look  f riendly-like  at  another  young  man 
for  his  heart  to  beat  faster  and  the  blood  to 
rise  and  rush. 

Hirsh  Roth  never  relaxed  his  vigilance  over 
his  son.  Many  an  appointment  with  Fanny 
could  not  be  kept  on  account  of  the  older  man. 
He  wanted  to  know  where  his  son  went  and 
from  whence  he  came.  From  time  to  time  he 
spoke  about  Feldman  as  of  one  who  had  be 
trayed  him  in  the  most  rascally  way. 

Every  meeting  with  Fanny  now  necessitated 
diplomacy,  and  was  frequently  espaced  by 
weeks.  The  elder  Roth  grew  thin  and  irritable 

194. 


HIRSH  ROTH'S  THEORY 


as  the  spring  approached.  Joseph  Roth 
planned  many  a  time  to  ask  details  about  Feld- 
man's  betrayal,  hoping  to  patch  up  the  quar 
rel.  But  he  was  afraid  to  complicate  matters, 
to  arouse  suspicion. 

One  evening,  late,  as  Joseph  entered  his 
room  at  the  Josephson's  he  found  his  father 
waiting  for  him.  The  old  man  abused  the  boy 
in  the  most  vehement  way.  It  had  been 
brought  to  his  ears  that  Joseph  had  danced 
with  Fanny  Feldman  at  the  last  musicale. 

"My  son,  my  own  son,  danced  with  Feld- 
man's  daughter!" 

It  was  more  than  Joseph  could  stand.  How 
long  was  he  to  be  bossed  like  that?  His  father 
had  once  chosen  who  was  to  be  his  wife,  and 
now  he  was  abusing  him  for  dancing  with  whom 
he  pleased.  To  his  mind  Miss  Feldman  was 
not  at  all  the  Fanny  of  a  few  months  ago. 
Miss  Feldman  was  the  woman  he  loved,  ad 
mired — the  one  he  had  chosen  himself.  Why 
should  his  father's  dislike  of  her  father  inter 
fere  with  his  plans? 

195 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


And  it  did  not.  He  eloped  with  her  a  week 
later — eloped  to  Philadelphia  on  a  paltry 
twenty-dollar  bill,  a  week  before  the  Easter 
holiday  season  began. 

"We  are  married,  Fanny  and  Joseph,"  he 
wired  to  his  father  two  days  later. 

"Come  home  immediately,  Mazel  Tow,"  was 
the  answer  returned  as  fast  as  the  wires  could 
take  it. 

At  the  Josephsons'  the  young  couple  were 
told  Hirsh  Roth  had  again  gone  to  live  with 
the  Feldmans.  There  Joseph  found  his  fa 
ther  in  the  highest  possible  spirits. 

"But  why  didn't  you  do  it  sooner,  you  silly 
boy?  I  almost  ruined  my  stomach  eating  at 
the  Josephsons.  The  thought  of  missing  the 
good  things  Mrs.  Feldman  cooks  during  the 
Holy  days  almost  drove  me  mad." 

And  turning  to  the  beaming  Feldman: 

"Well,  did  I  win  a  hat?  Free  choice,  old 
friend,  we  have  to  give  free  choice  to  the  world. 
But  I  almost  died  of  a  sick  stomach  waiting 
for  the  theory  to  work." 

196 


THE  TRAGEDY  OF  AFGHIAN'S 
LIVING  RUG 

OOME WHERE  between  Madison  and 
O  Fifth  Avenues,  close  to  the  hubbub  of 
Forty-second  Street — the  thoroughfare  which 
is  like  a  river  flowing  in  many  directions  at  the 
same  time — you  will  find  the  store  of  Afghian, 
Mestre  Afghian,  the  rug  dealer  and  Oriental 
art  collector. 

Afghian  would  surely  take  offense  at  having 
his  place  called  a  "store,"  the  chief  objection 
to  this  word  being  his  aversion  to  Occidental 
business  methods — the  system  by  which  things 
are  appraised  in  their  dollar-and-cents  value. 

Afghian  also  is  a  business  man.  But  to  him 
rugs  and  topazes  are  rugs  and  topazes  first,  and 
do  not  represent  so  many  gold  pieces.  He 
thinks  and  feels  in  terms  of  rugs,  as  did  his 
ancestors  hundreds  of  years  ago  on  the  plains 

197 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


of  Afghanistan  and  Turkestan  when  they  ex 
changed  the  product  of  their  labor  and  love  for 
the  pearls  brought  to  them  by  the  poachers  of 
Bahrein. 

In  the  dimly  lit  square  room  hang  beautiful 
examples  of  the  work  of  the  Tadjiks  and 
Chiites,  some  in  riotous  colors  suggestive  and 
voluptuous,  and  others  as  though  woven  by 
hands  of  saints  who  had  banished  all  earthly 
joy  from  their  hearts. 

And  for  every  rug  Afghian  has  a  story,  a 
story  which  he  reads  out  of  the  web  and  colors, 
deducing  the  strangest  possible  details  from  the 
feel  of  the  wool  in  a  certain  spot,  and  embroid 
ering  upon  it  till  one  thinks  of  the  fabric  as  a 
living  thing,  freighted  with  a  thousand  pas 
sions  and  burdened  with  hatreds  and  preju 
dices  as  we  all  are — each  one  of  us  a  stitch  in 
the  web  of  the  universe  woven  by  the  great 
master  on  the  loom  of  eternity. 

On  an  afternoon  I  found  Afghian  seated  in 
a  corner  and  fingering  some  topazes.  He  was 
not  alone.  A  portly  man  and  a  young  lady 

198 


THE  TRAGEDY  OF  AFGHIAN'S  LIVING  RUG 

were  looking  at  the  rugs  displayed  on  the  four 
walls. 

I  heard  the  two  Americans  speak  about 
room  measurements  and  color  harmony  with 
the  furniture  they  possessed.  They  looked  like 
sure  buyers,  and  their  appearance  left  no 
doubt  of  their  ability  to  pay  for  what  they 
wanted.  As  I  looked  at  them  I  remembered 
the  powerful  car  waiting  outside — the  liveried 
chauffeur  and  the  footman  in  their  gold  be 
spangled  coats  fairly  shouting  the  riches  of 
their  master. 

Yet  why  was  Afghian  so  cold?  Why  was 
he  not  at  the  elbows  of  his  rich  customers,  per 
suading  them,  telling  them  stories,  explaining 
values,  demonstrating,  cajoling? 

He  sat  in  a  corner  polishing  some  green- 
blue  stones  on  the  sleeves  of  his  coat — his  small 
eyes  ablaze,  the  thin  dry  lips  drawn  inside,  coil 
ing  himself  like  a  serpent  before  the  spring. 

A  few  minutes  after  I  had  come  in,  the  gen 
tleman  pointed  with  his  cane  to  a  large  rug 
on  the  wall  and  said: 

199 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


"What's  the  price  of  this  one?" 

"It's  sold,"  answered  Afghian,  without  lift 
ing  his  eyes.  And  he  continued  to  polish  the 
topazes  on  his  sleeve. 

"And  what's  the  price  of  this  one?"  the  lady 
asked,  pointing  her  white-gloved  hand  to  a  rug 
that  I  hoped  to  possess  some  day. 

"Sold,  also — belongs  to  this  gentleman,"  he 
answered,  pointing  at  me. 

The  two  looked  me  over  for  an  instant  and 
left  the  store  without  the  usual  murmured 
apology  from  the  dealer. 

"Why  did  you  say  that  the  rug  they  wanted 
was  sold?  and  why  did  you  tell  them  that  the 
other  one  belonged  to  me?" 

"Because  I  don't  want  to  sell  them  any 
rugs,"  he  answered  sharply. 

"Why,  have  they  not  the  money  to  pay?" 

"Oh,  yes,  they  have.  They  have  gold  enough 
to  pave  all  the  Avenue.  I  know  how  rich  he  is. 
But  I  would  not  sell  him  any  of  my  rugs,  for 
the  same  reason  that  you  would  not  sell  your 
work  to  serve  as  reading  matter  for  a  herring 

200 


THE  TRAGEDY  OF  AFGHIAN'S  LIVING  RUG 

advertisement.  As  to  the  Turkestan  rug,  I 
was  not  lying.  Some  day,  some  day  we  will 
talk  more  about  it." 

I  knew  Afghian  too  well  to  press  for  further 
information.  But  it  turned  out  he  was  willing 
himself  to  go  on  and  talk  without  my  having 
to  urge  him. 

"Several  years  ago  this  young  lady  came  to 
buy  a  rug.  She  was  so  beautiful  that  I  could 
not  think  of  anything  good  enough  to  lay  un 
der  her  feet. 

"I  have  loved  once;  Yousouf  Afghian  has 
loved  once,  many,  many  years  ago  when  I  still 
bathed  in  the  River  Atrek  in  summer  and 
climbed  the  mountains  in  winter.  I  loved  a 
Circassian  girl,  and  for  her  I  had  woven  my 
self,  of  the  best  silk  and  young  wool,  a  little 
carpet.  The  Afghians  have  woven  carpets  ere 
the  rest  of  the  world  knew  that  there  was  such 
an  art  as  carpet  weaving;  and  of  all  the 
Afghians,  I,  it  was  said,  could  weave  the  finest. 

"And  in  the  carpet  for  my  maiden  I  em 
broidered  stories  from  Hafiz  and  Omar,  the 

201 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


like  of  which  have  never  reached  the  rest  of 
the  world.  I  hoped  to  see  my  work  sanctified 
by  the  touch  of  Kizil's  bare  feet.  But  it  was 
not  to  be  so. 

"God  had  willed  that  I  should  shed  the  blood 
of  my  own  brother  for  her.  God  had  willed 
that  the  curse  of  my  mother  should  rest  on  my 
head.  God  had  willed  that  I  should  flee  my 
parental  home  and  fields. 

"When  Kizil  begged  that  she  should  follow 
me,  I  refused.  My  sins  were  too  great. 
Should  God  choose  to  visit  upon  me  His  pun 
ishment,  I  meant  to  be  alone  to  suffer. 

"Every  day  I  feed  another  man  beside  my 
self.  And  from  this  man  I  exact  no  labor  and 
no  thanks.  And  because  I  have  deprived  the 
Just  One  of  his  due  I  say  the  prayers  for  my 
brother  twice  a  day.  And  to  my  mother  I 
send  compensation  for  my  dead  brother's  labor. 
If  I  love  you,  a  stranger,  not  of  my  own  faith, 
it  is  because  you  remind  me  of  my  brother 
Kenghus — my  dead  brother. 

"One  day  this  young  American  lady  came  to 
202 


THE  TRAGEDY  OF  AFGHIAN'S  LIVING  RUG 

buy  a  rug.  And  she  seemed  to  carry  with  her 
the  odor  of  Kizil,  and  her  face  was  as  soft- 
looking  as  Kizil's,  and  her  eyes  as  warm  and 
her  feet  as  small.  And  all  the  modern  clothes 
she  wore  could  not  cover  the  Orient  that  was 
in  her.  And  there  was  that  tang  in  her  speech 
which  comes  only  to  the  Levantine. 

"It  was  the  first  time  in  all  those  years  that 
God  permitted  me  to  forget  Kenghus  was 
dead. 

"I  went  to  the  trunk  and  took  out  the  car 
pet  I  had  woven  for  Kizil.  I  feared  she  might 
refuse  to  buy  it,  so  I  offered  her  another  rug 
and  gave  her  Kizil's  rug  as  a  present. 

"We  shook  hands,  and  at  her  touch  I  was 
young  again,  living  again.  As  though  the 
Eternal  had  in  His  greatness  forgiven  me  my 
great  sin. 

"The  following  nights  I  lay  awake  thinking 
that  her  bare  feet  were  pressing  the  young  wool 
on  the  carpet  I  had  given  her;  that  she  arose 
in  the  morning  and  read  the  stories  I  had  woven 
for  her,  my  own  story  between  the  wonders 

203 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


of  Hafiz  and  Omar.  It  was  as  if  I  myself  had 
lain  under  her  feet. 

"I  hoped  to  see  her  again,  hoped  that  she 
might  want  to  see  again  the  stranger  who  gave 
her  such  a  carpet.  And  every  time  the  door 
opened  my  heart  sank.  What  would  I  not 
have  given  her  to  see  her  again !  She  had  only 
to  ask,  or  I  only  to  guess.  If  I  love  topazes  to 
day,  it  is  because  of  her  eyes.  And  if  you 
sensed  an  odor  of  violets  and  narcissus,  it  is 
because  of  her  who  reminded  me  so  much  of 
Kizil." 

Afghian  became  very  nervous.  His  hands 
trembled  and  his  thin  nostrils  quivered  like  the 
wings  of  a  wounded  bird.  He  paced  the  room 
for  a  while,  then  putting  his  hands  on  my  shoul 
ders  he  cried  out: 

"Why  should  a  man  trade  in  the  things  he 
likes  best?  For  generations  the  Afghians  have 
woven  rugs.  At  Pasargrades,  in  the  tomb  of 
Cyrus,  lives  the  handiwork  of  one  of  the 
Afghians.  Rugs  and  carpets  run  in  our  blood. 
You  don't  know  what  they  mean  to  us  when 

204 


THE  TRAGEDY  OF  AFGHIAN'S  LIVING  RUG 

you  buy  them.  We  love  rugs.  We  make  them 
because  we  love  them.  Who  can't  make  a  rug 
should  not  have  one.  It  takes  five  and  ten  years 
to  make  one.  I  remember  how  my  father 
worked  twenty  years  for  what  was  to  be  the 
crown  of  his  life.  He  offered  daily  prayers 
to  the  Eternal  to  allow  him  to  live  long  enough 
to  finish  the  work.  Twenty  years  from  a  man's 
short  life!  Twenty  years  continual  thought' 
woven  into  one  long  unbroken  thread.  The 
limbs  grow  weaker,  the  hair  turns  gray,  kings 
are  unseated,  and  a  man  sits  and  spins  and 
spins.  Can  such  a  thing  afterwards  be  bought 
by  another  man? 

"And  therefore,  I,  who  love  rugs,  I  should 
trade  in  shoes  and  combs,  in  grains  and  sack 
cloth.  How  wise  that  learned  man  of  your 
faith  who  made  a  living  polishing  glasses! 

"Years  passed,  and  I  did  not  see  the  young 
lady  again.  Then,  when  I  was  least  expecting 
it,  her  father  came  to  me  about  a  big  rug  that 
needed  some  repairs.  It  is  long  since  I  have 
woven  myself,  but  I  wanted  to  see  her  who  re- 

205 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


minded  me  of  Kizil.  I  wanted  to  see  my  car 
pet.  So  I  said  it  was  necessary  that  I  should 
go  and  see  for  myself  what  the  damage  was. 

"Trembling  I  stood  before  her.  I  asked  her 
about  my  gift  to  her.  She  looked  even  more 
like  Kizil  than  when  I  first  saw  her.  She  stared 
at  me  for  a  few  moments — she  had  forgotten 
all  about  it.  Then  she  remembered  something 
— yes,  yes,  she  remembered  that  it  did  not  har 
monize  well  with  the  colors  on  the  walls  of  the 
vestibule 

"I  found  Kizil's  rug  used  as  a  doormat  at 
the  servants'  quarters.  A  thousand  heavy 
boots  left  their  rub  and  dirt  on  it.  On  the 
beard  of  Omar,  grease  spots,  and  one  eye  of 
Hafiz  burned  out  by  the  fire  from  a  cigarette, 
as  if  done  in  jest.  All  my  dreams  a  miserable 
looking  rag — a  few  tatters. 

"It  was  a  lie !  she  never  resembled  Kizil  in  the 
least.  It  was  the  beginning  of  my  punishment. 
Take,  friend,  those  topazes  from  me,  or  I  shall 
throw  them  into  the  street." 

Youssuf  Afghian  kneeled  down  before  an 
206 


THE  TRAGEDY  OF  AFGHIAN'S  LIVING  RUG 

icon  in  the  corner  of  the  room  and  prayed  fer 
vently.  Once  for  himself,  and  once  for  the 
brother  he  killed  many,  many  years  ago  on  the 
shores  of  the  River  Atrek. 


207 


BABETA'S  DOG 

SHE  was  only  a  little  puppy  when  she  was 
brought  to  Babeta's  restaurant.  And  be 
cause  Babeta  has  a  literary  turn  of  mind,  he 
renamed  her  Ophelia  when  Sonori,  the  tenor, 
who  knew  more  about  dogs  than  about  litera 
ture,  said  she  was  a  Dane. 

It  was  due  to  Ophelia  that  Babeta,  the  an 
archist-communist  philosopher,  became  very 
much  interested  in  dogdom  and  learned  to  dis 
tinguish  an  Airdale  from  a  Bulldog  and  a 
Spaniel  from  a  Dane.  They  ceased  talking 
about  music  and  philosophy  at  Babeta's,  and, 
though  the  Goyescas  almost  created  a  stir  in 
the  musical  world  and  Bergson  had  delivered 
a  lecture  in  Rumfold  Hall,  Babeta  and  his  art- 
tist  guests  neglected  such  transcendental  inter 
ests  because  of  the  change  brought  about  in 
the  direction  of  their  thoughts  by  a  dog, 

208 


BABETA'S  DOG 


because  of  a  little  puppy  they  had  named 
Ophelia. 

Sonori  discovered  that  Shakespeare,  and  not 
Verdi,  was  the  author  of  "The  Moor  of  Ven 
ice,"  and  when  the  talk  turned  about  the  Scan 
dinavians,  many  another  musical  celebrity 
heard  for  the  first  time  the  name  of  Ibsen  or  of 
Bjornson.  And  there  was  even  a  lonely  man 
in  the  crowd  who  had  read  a  story  by  Knut 
Hamsun,  that  greatest  of  all  Scandinavian 
writers,  whose  tales  have  no  equal  in  the  world's 
literature. 

In  what  strange  surroundings  Ophelia  was 
destined  to  live! 

Near  Eighth  Avenue,  before  Fortieth 
Street.  The  smell  of  garlic  and  tomato  sauce 
warns  the  passer-by  that  the  inhabitants  are 
from  Piedmonte,  but  on  the  street  one  hears 
the  Irish  brogue.  The  bales  of  cotton  in  front 
of  the  warehouses  and  the  smoke  from  the 
chimneys  reek  after  Liverpool,  but  the  smell 
of  rope,  tar  and  fried  smelts  that  comes  from 
the  wharves  near  by  remind  one  of  Fiume  and 

209 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


Marseille,  as  the  swaying  masts  and  the  spread- 
out  sails  outline  themselves  against  the  glow 
ing  sky. 

And  in  such  surroundings,  back  of  one  of 
the  numerous  saloons  in  which  stale  beer  is 
served  to  drunken  sailors  and  dust-covered 
longshoremen,  is  the  celebrated  restaurant  of 
Babeta. 

I  have  said  already  that  Babeta  is  a  philos 
opher,  and  were  I  to  write  about  him  and  not 
about  his  dog,  I  could  tell  you  some  good 
stories  about  the  interminable  scientific  discus 
sions  at  a  certain  table  in  a  corner,  and  the 
marvelous  feasts  at  the  tables  reserved  there 
for  the  two  thousand  dollar  a  night  tenors  and 
three  thousand  dollar  a  week  sopranos.  A 
book  could  be  written  about  the  decorations 
and  friezes  of  the  place,  and  only  ignorance  of 
culinary  art  would  put  a  stop  to  what  I  could 
say  about  the  food  served  at  Babeta's.  As  to 
the  wine — well,  it's  Chianti  or  Lacrima  Christi, 
if  that  means  anything  to  you. 

But  I  have  promised  Prosper  to  tell  the 
210 


BABETA'S  DOG 


story  of  Ophelia.  Prosper  knows  a  lot  about 
science  and  still  more  about  art,  but,  because 
he  is  neither  scientist  nor  artist,  he  is  interested 
in  human  beings  and  dogs. 

We  all  admired  Ophelia.  She  was  gliding 
graciously  between  the  tables,  and  as  she  grew 
bigger  she  was  frequently  a  medium  of  friend 
ship  between  old  and  new  guests.  Hands  met 
hands  stroking  her  beautiful  fur,  and  after  an 
"excuse  me,"  or  a  "pardon,  signorina,"  the  new 
guest  asked  the  old  one  the  name  of  the  dog 
— followed  an  introduction,  an  invitation  to 
the  other  table,  after  which  Ophelia  was 
slightly  forgotten  and  Dante  or  Puccini  was 
discussed  for  a  little  while.  But  Ophelia's 
steady  place  was  near  Babeta's  table  at  the 
door. 

In  less  than  a  year  Ophelia  was  the  person 
ality  of  the  place.  She  was  big  and  stately. 
Her  short  morning  walk  was  taken  on  the 
leash,  one  end  of  which  was  in  her  master's 
hand.  Any  casual  courtesy  paid  to  her  by  an 
other  dog  during  those  walks  was  firmly  and 

211 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


instantly  checked  by  Babeta.  She  was  a  Dane, 
a  pure  blue  Dane,  and  Babeta,  the  anarchist, 
the  enemy  of  aristocracy,  did  not  allow  his  dog 
to  meet  the  common  people,  the  free,  common 
people  of  dogdom.  Ophelia  pulled  at  the  leash 
once  or  twice,  but,  after  severe  reprimands, 
she  made  a  virtue  of  necessity  and  passed 
haughtily  by  unobservant  of  any  amorous  ad 
vances. 

It  was  Prosper  who  brought  the  great  news. 
Ophelia  was  to  be  mated  to  a  pure  Dane  owned 
by  a  captain,  who  promised  to  bring  "Prince'* 
on  his  next  trip  from  Europe.  And  the  news 
spread.  People  that  had  neglected  the  spa 
ghetti  and  Chianti  for  weeks  suddenly  got  a 
hankering  after  Babeta's  place.  Ere  the  week 
was  over  the  unborn  puppies  were  promised  to 
two  hundred  people.  Babeta  had  been^shown 
the  pedigree  of  Prince  and  was  satisfied  on  this 
score. 

I  have  already  said  that  Ophelia  was  the  per 
sonality  of  the  place,  but  after  Babeta  told  the 
story  of  her  future  mate,  and  promised  pups 

212 


BABETA'S  DOG 


to  all  that  would  listen  to  him,  she  became  the 
most  venerated  personality.  Sopranos  with 
two  hemispheres  at  their  feet  fed  Ophelia  the 
best  sweets  of  the  continent,  and  a  justly  cele 
brated  baritone  brought  her  a  collar  of  pure 
silver,  lined  with  costly  fur.  Nothing  was  too 
good  for  Ophelia,  nothing  too  expensive  for 
her. 

From  the  river,  a  few  hundred  feet  away, 
came  the  fog  blasts  of  transport  ships  carry 
ing  thousands  of  men  to  a  vortex  of  blood  in 
which  millions  of  men  had  already  been 
crushed,  pulverized  and  liquified  to  check  the 
rule  of  aristocracy,  but  back  of  that  saloon 
near  Eighth  Avenue,  Babeta,  the  anarchist- 
communist  philosopher,  was  expounding  the 
virtues  of  pure  blood  as  exemplified  in  Ophelia 
and  Prince,  the  Dane  to  which  she  was  to  be 
mated. 

Many  were  the  bottles  of  wine  drunk  to  her 
health  and  the  health  of  her  offspring.  Babeta 
actually  experienced  the  joys  of  fatherhood 
when  he  made  arrangements  with  a  veterina- 

213 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


rian,  the  best  in  town,  for  the  great  day.  In 
the  most  comfortable  corner  of  the  kitchen  a 
place  was  reserved  for  Ophelia's  litter.  A  new 
soft  mattress  and  warm  woolen  covers  were 
prepared  and  only  the  privileged  ones  were 
shown  all  those  preparations. 

"I  want  a  male  puppy,"  said  Sonori,  "be 
cause  I  want  to  call  it  Hamlet." 

"And  I  want  a  female  one  and  I  will  call  it 
Flora,"  said  Mile.  Marienta,  the  great  lyric 
soprano. 

Babeta  was  happy.  Thanks  to  his  dog,  he 
had  obtained  higgedly-piggedly  more  flattery 
than  he  ever  craved  for  his  famous  food  or  for 

0 

his  philosophical  discourses. 

"Ophelia,  you  good  girl,  come  for  a  walk," 
and  master  and  dog  went  early  every  morning 
to  breathe  fresh  air. 

But  spring  was  near.  As  the  days  went  by 
it  seemed  to  Babeta  that  Ophelia  was  grad 
ually  losing  her  haughtiness  towards  the  com 
mon  people,  ordinarily  along  the  wharves. 

The  hundred  and  one  mongrel  dogs  roving 
214 


BABETA'S  DOG 


there  followed  Ophelia  and  her  master  and  she 
pulled  at  the  leash  with  more  insistence  from 
day  to  day.  Once  she  allowed  one  of  the  dogs 
to  come  so  near  that  Babeta  felt  the  fangs  of 
the  mongrel  as  he  drove  him  away  with  a  kick. 
And  Ophelia  stood  meekly  by.  Homewards 
she  bent  her  head  in  shame  as  the  master  cen 
sored  her. 

"Shame,  Ophelia." 

Ophelia  was  ashamed.  She  nestled  close  to 
Babeta  as  he  sat  down  to  bandage  his  leg  and 
looked  up  to  him  and  whined.  Only  when  the 
whining  threatened  to  turn  into  a  howl  did 
Babeta  give  a  forgiving  sign.  The  following 
days  the  morning  walks  were  taken  along  the 
avenue;  the  leash  was  brought  up  shorter,  as 
a  precaution,  and  all  was  peaceful  again.  But 
during  the  day  Ophelia  showed  signs  of  un 
easiness,  and  Babeta  watched  the  door  because 
she  tried  twice  to  slink  out. 

"What's  the  matter  with  Ophelia?  She  has 
refused  chocolate!"  asked  one  of  the  guests. 

"She  has  probably  had  enough  sweets,"  an- 
215 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


swered    Babeta    offhandedly,    but    his   heart 
sunk. 

A  few  days  later,  a  street  dog  slunk  in 
through  the  door  of  the  restaurant.  Ophelia 
got  up  from  her  corner  to  meet  the  stranger. 
Her  master  sprung  up  and  kicked  the  intruder 
so  violently  the  dog's  howl  could  be  heard  from 
the  street. 

"You  treat  the  common  people  pretty 
roughly,  Babeta!"  observed  Prosper. 

Babeta  was  angry  with  Ophelia. 

"Shame,"  he  cried,  "shame,"  and  drove  her 
to  the  kitchen.  "Away  from  me,  away." 

In  vain  Ophelia  tried  to  make  up  to  him. 
Her  eyes  begged  forgiveness.  But  when  it 
was  not  given  she  turned  about  and  barked 
and  howled  in  righteous  indignation  as  it  just 
occurred  to  her  that  she  was  unjustly  treated. 

"Wherein  have  I  sinned?"  she  seemed  to 
question. 

Sonori  and  others  wanted  to  pat  her,  but  she 
gave  fair  warning  by  snarling  and  snapping 
in  the  air. 

216 


BABETA'S  DOG 


"What's  the  trouble  with  Ophelia?"  Sonori 
asked. 

"To  the  kitchen,  go,  go,"  and  Babeta  pushed 
her  away. 

That  night,  after  the  guests  were  all  gone, 
the  master  spoke  to  the  dog. 

"I  am  ashamed  of  you,  Ophelia.  You  be 
haved  miserably.  You  a  pure  Dane  to  permit 
and  accept  the  courtship  of  a  low  down  street 
dog! — I  am  ashamed  of  you!  Prince  will  soon 
come  from  Europe,  and  you  want  to  associate 
with  nondescripts  that  feed  from  garbage 
cans!" 

Ophelia  cried  and  whined  and  begged  for 
giveness,  and  was  happy  again  only  when 
Babeta  allowed  her  to  take  the  nightly  piece  of 
sugar  from  between  his  lips. 

Yet  Ophelia  felt  the  misery  of  aristocratic 
loneliness.  That  streak  of  the  dark  blue  sky 
she  saw  between  the  shutters  at  night  and  the 
snarling,  howling  and  fighting  of  the  dogs  at 
the  wharves  caused  her  sleepless  nights.  It 
was  early  spring;  the  time  when  life  asserts 

217 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


itself;  when  dog  and  man  howls  to  the  moon 
and  snaps  at  each  falling  star. 

That  dog  Babeta  had  kicked  out  so  violently 
from  the  restaurant  came  nightly  under  the 
window  of  his  belle  and  called,  begged,  sere 
naded  and  pleaded  in  even  more  heartrending 
tones  than  the  tenor  in  Bizet's  "Pecheur  des 
Perles."  And  it  was  Prosper  again  who 
brought  the  astonishing  news  "Ophelia  was 
stolen!" 

It  was  Babeta's  version  of  what  had  hap 
pened.  The  lattices  of  the  shutters  were 
smashed,  the  window  broken  and  the  dog  gone. 
Babeta  was  the  most  disconsolate  of  men. 

"Put  in  an  ad  and  offer  a  reward.  An 
nounce  to  the  police.  Go  to  the  depot  of 

s;  P.  c.  A." 

Such  were  the  advices.  But  he  cared  not. 
He  remembered  the  pulling  at  the  leash,  the 
meeting  on  the  wharf,  the  dog  he  kicked  out, 
and  he  despaired.  He  had  promised  pure  blue 
puppies.  He  had  been  so  good  to  Ophelia. 
He  had  given  her  the  best  there  was  to  be  had. 

218 


BABETA'S  DOG 


But  she  left  him,  ran  away  like  a  thief  in  the 
dead  of  night. 

Babeta  could  not  touch  any  food  the  whole 
day.  That  night,  when  the  tenors  and  so 
pranos  came  to  eat,  they  cried  and  mourned  the 
great  loss. 

"Dio,  mio,  oh.    Dio,  mio!"  they  all  groaned. 

Babeta  found  Ophelia  the  following  morn 
ing.  He  recognized  her  from  a  distance.  His 
attention  was  drawn  to  a  pack  of  dogs  fight 
ing  over  something  or  other.  There  were  two 
different  groups,  and  Ophelia,  not  definitely 
attached  to  either  of  them,  was  keeping  on  the 
outskirts  of  the  skirmish,  snapping  and  snarl 
ing  at  individuals  of  both  parties.  Oh,  what 
a  glorious  free  time  she  had!  Her  wriggling 
tail  expressed  the  joy  of  life  and  its  mastery. 
They  were  all  afraid  of  her.  She  was  stronger 
than  any  of  them,  and  she  was  so  happy — so 
happy  and  free! 

"Ophelia!"  rang  Babeta' s  voice.  The  dog 
turned  about  and,  seeing  the  master,  she 

219 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


started  in  the  opposite  direction,  tail  between 
hind  legs  and  head  down. 

"Ophelia!"  he  called  again.  She  took  a  few 
steps  toward  him,  and  as  he  approached  nearer 
she  laid  down  in  the  mud,  closed  her  eyes  and 
turned  her  head  aside.  Babeta  had  not  taken 
the  leash  along,  but  he  held  on  to  the  silver 
collar  to  bring  her  home. 

Babeta  hoped  against  hope  that  he  would 
still  be  able  to  give  pure  Dane  pups  to  his 
friends,  but  in  a  few  weeks  the  shame  could  no 
longer  be  hidden.  He  opened  his  heart  to 
every  one  and  told  where  he  had  found  her 
and  in  what  company.  The  guests  who  had 
patted  her  and  fed  her  the  best  sweets  no 
longer  looked  at  her.  She  was  pushed  away 
from  near  the  table.  With  bowed  head  she 
nestled  close  to  her  master,  her  sole  protector 
and  friend,  but  he  repulsed  her.  He  did  not 
understand.  He  did  not  sympathize. 

"Fui,  fui,  get  away,  shameless  creature,  to 
the  kitchen." 

The  ones  that  were  promised  pups  became 
220 


BABETA'S  DOG 


harsh  to  her  and  everybody  scolded.    And  one 
of  them  remarked: 

"Look,  she  is  eating  from  the  floor." 
It  was  the  most  evident  sign  of  her  down 
fall.  Before  her  escapade  she  had  never  eaten 
but  what  was  given  to  her  in  a  plate ;  and  never 
the  rests  from  the  tables,  but  food  especially 
prepared  for  her  by  Babeta  himself. 

"Shame,"  they  all  yelled,  "shame,  shame." 
When  she  lifted  her  pleading  head  to  her 
master,  Babeta,  in  a  fit  of  anger,  spat  at  it. 
"Fui,  fui!" 

In  vain  she  waited  for  forgiveness.  She 
longed  for  the  nightly  piece  of  sugar  from  the 
lips  of  her  master.  She  stretched  her  neck 
when  he  passed  her  by  in  his  inspection  of  the 
kitchen.  But  he  did  not  even  look  at  her. 
What  terrible  thing  had  she  done !  If  he  were 
willing  to  forgive  her  she  would  feel  as  guilty 
as  he  wanted,  but  since  he  was  so  harsh  and 
insulting  she  felt  only  his  cruelty  and  not  her 
shame. 

Outside  her  friend  was  serenading  again. 
221 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


The  door  was  not  even  closed.  The  master  no 
longer  cared  with  whom  she  associated.  Among 
humans  no  friend  was  left — she  understood 
that — the  door  was  wide  open.  She  could  do 
as  she  pleased.  She  had  lost  her  master.  He 
will  only  scold  and  never  pat  again.  She  un 
derstood  that,  too. 

***** 

"Where  is  Ophelia?"  Sonori  asked  the  next 
evening. 

"She  has  run  away  and  committed  suicide!" 
Babeta  announced.  "Actually  committed  sui 
cide.  She  understood  she  was  disgraced.  I 
called  and  called,  but  she  ran  away — she  surely 
committed  suicide!"  and  he  was  flattered  that 
Ophelia  cared  enough  for  him  to  commit  sui 
cide  because  she  had  lost  his  friendship.  Only 
Prosper  knows. 

"She  has  gone  to  the  dogs,"  he  said.  "The 
day  of  aristocracy  is  over.  It's  the  people  now. 
You  are  either  with  them;  howling,  fighting, 
getting  ruffled  and  bitten,  or  you  have  to  iso 
late  yourself  on  an  island  at  the  mercy  of  much 

222 


BABETA'S  DOG 


worse — like  that  other  great  aristocrat — and 

Ophelia  understood  and  made  her  choice." 

***** 

At  Babeta's  table  they  talk  again  about 
molecular  physics,  phonolites,  christalloids, 
music  and  art. 

Dogs  and  Scandinavian  literature  are  taboo. 
And  every  time  Prosper  enters  the  place  Ba- 
beta  feels  uneasy,  as  though  he  owes  him  an 
explanation. 


223 


THE  PROFESSOR 

ORCHARD  STREET  beams  on  Hous 
ton  Street  and  ends  on  Canal  Street, 
near  the  Manhattan  Bridge.  But  this  street 
is  better  known  to  our  foreign  population  than 
any  other  thoroughfare,  not  excluding  Fifth 
Avenue  or  even  Broadway. 

The  reason  for  such  renown  is  to  be  found 
in  the  reputation  of  Orchard  Street  as  a  mar 
ket  for  everything  under  the  sun.  From  be 
fore  sunrise  to  late  in  the  night  both  sides  of 
the  street  are  lined  with  double  rows  of  push 
carts  from  which  all  sorts  of  wares  are  sold 
to  the  passer-by.  From  Houston  to  Riving- 
ton  Street  the  space  is  exclusively  reserved  for 
edibles;  meat,  fish,  vegetables,  bread  and  fruit 
is  sold  in  the  open  air  by  howling  venders  to 
bargaining  customers,  each  one  yelling  his 
offer  on  the  top  of  his  voice;  quarreling,  dis- 

224 


THE  PROFESSOR 


puting,  cursing,  using  what  is  most  spicy  in  the 
gutters  of  the  street  lingo. 

There  are  also  stores  on  Orchard  Street,  but 
they  are  used  only  as  storage  houses  and  for 
rainy  days.  Otherwise  the  owner  of  the  store 
displays  his  merchandise  on  the  width  of  the 
sidewalk,  just  leaving  a  goatpath  for  the  cus 
tomers,  as  they  do  in  Calcutta,  in  Constanti 
nople,  or  in  Nijni  Novigorod  since  all  times. 
But  the  market  of  edibles  ends  on  the  corner 
of  Rivington  Street.  From  there  to  Canal 
Street,  Orchard  pushcarts  carry  merchandise 
of  a  different  character.  On  one  pushcart  are 
four  hundred  dollar  fur  coats,  water-bottles 
and  furniture  polish,  and  on  the  next  one  is  a 
medley  of  all  kinds  of  ten-cent  jewelry  sold 
for  "only  a  penny  a  piece."  And  you  never 
can  tell  what  may  be  on  the  next  pushcart. 
One  day,  silk  shirts  and  the  next  day  rubber 
boots  or  marble  statues.  At  some  other  time 
"genuine"  cut  glass  and  a  day  later  Syrian 
rugs,  old  coats,  pants,  socks,  watches,  soap,  a 
phonograph,  or,  for  a  diversion,  a  player-piano 

225 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


is  brought  on  the  sidewalk  and  tried  in  the 
open.  It  is  the  good  old  Bazaar  so  dear  to 
Eastern  people  the  world  over;  the  Bazaar 
which  gives  an  opportunity  to  outwit,  outbar 
gain,  and  outcheat  one  another.  The  vender 
always  swears  by  the  heads  of  his  wife  and 
children  that  the  merchandise  costs  him  more 
than  he  asks  for,  and  there  is  play  and  sport 
to  let  the  customer  go  away  and  watch  and 
recognize  in  his  gait  and  the  way  he  holds  his 
head  whether  he  expects  to  be  called  back.  It 
is  sport  to  watch  him  stop  and  turn  his  head 
to  offer  a  few  cents  more.  Then,  the  merchant 
makes  believe  he  does  not  hear  him.  Sure  that 
he  had  reached  the  bottom,  the  customer  re 
turns  to  the  pushcart,  fingers  over  the  thing  he 
wants  to  buy,  pays,  and  is  happy.  One  can 
not  purchase  such  happiness  in  a  one-price 
store. 

On  Orchard  Street  lived  Solomon  Berman 
and  his  wife.  They  had  no  children.  He  was 
a  Hebrew  teacher.  This  does  not  mean  that 
he  knew  Hebrew  more  than  to  read  the  pray- 

226 


THE  PROFESSOR 


ers.  But  he  knew  enough  to  teach  the  children 
of  the  neighborhood  the  holy  characters; 
enough  to  enable  them  to  enter  the  common  of 
men  at  the  age  of  thirteen  and  become  Jews 
among  Jews ;  enough  to  keep  them  in  the  clan 
and  retard  the  crumbling  of  the  great  rock  of 
Israel. 

In  the  neighborhood,  Berman  had  a  reputa 
tion  as  a  very  conscientious  teacher  and  as  a 
loving  husband.  It  was  said  that  he  fasted 
two  days  a  week,  not  because  he  was  so  re 
ligious,  but  because  he  wanted  his  wife  to  have 
more  food  those  two  days.  She  was  very  thin 
and  ailing! 

Early  every  morning  Berman,  in  his  long 
coat  and  slipper  shoes,  went  into  the  street  to 
do  the  marketing  for  the  day.  There  was  no 
pleasure  in  it  for  him;  he  never  bargained. 
But  surely  no  merchant  ever  made  a  penny 
profit  on  what  Reb  Berman  bought — it  was 
known  how  poor  they  were.  The  poverty  of 
a  Hebrew  teacher  is  proverbial.  Still,  has  that 
not  always  been  so  ?  Was  it  not  even  forbidden 

227 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


to  take  money  for  teaching?  A  teacher  was 
only  entitled  to  compensation  for  the  time  he 
spent  with  the  pupil,  but  not  for  the  knowledge 
he  imparted. 

Things  went  on  nicely  enough  until  Mrs. 
Berman  took  to  her  bed,  meaning,  that  one 
morning  she  could  not  leave  the  bed.  Her 
husband  was  the  only  one  to  attend  her.  They 
had  no  friends.  The  women  of  the  neighbor 
hood  are  helping  their  men  till  late  at  night 
and  have  no  time  for  friendship,  even  on  Sat 
urday.  The  whole  of  the  Sabbath  is  given  to 
make  up  for  lost  sleep. 

Reb  Solomon  Berman  called  the  physician 
of  the  neighborhood.  The  young  medicus  ad 
vised  the  sick  woman  should  be  taken  to  a  hos 
pital,  but  Mrs.  Berman  would  not  hear  of  it. 
"What?  Separate  from  my  husband  after 
thirty  years'  life  under  one  roof!" 

"But,  dear,  dear,"  pleaded  halfheartedly 
Solomon  Berman.  "Leah,  dear,  maybe, 
maybe " 

Mrs.  Berman  used  woman's  most  convinc- 
228 


THE  PROFESSOR 


ing  argument:  tears,  and  the  hospital  was  no 
longer  spoken  of.  The  doctor  returned  a  few 
days  later.  The  condition  of  the  woman  had 
become  worse.  The  house  was  untidy  and 
there  was  no  fire  in  the  stove. 

"Only  in  a  hospital  could  she  be  saved,"  he 
told  the  distracted  husband.  But  the  sick 
woman  would  not  hear  of  it. 

"If  I  have  to  die,  I  want  to  die  in  my  house, 
Solomon." 

Meanwhile  the  pupils  had  a  happy  time. 
The  teacher  dismissed  them  as  soon  as  they 
came  in  in  the  afternoons,  after  their  school 
hours. 

Reb  Berman  discovered  that  there  were 
more  than  two  fasting  days  in  a  week  for  a 
truly  religious  man.  The  druggist  charged 
full  prices. 

The  visiting  physician  was  touched  by  the 
devotion  of  the  old  couple.  He  visited  them 
twice  a  day  and  when  he  had  a  little  more  time 
he  took  off  his  coat  and  helped  tidy  up  the 
house,  and  built  a  fire  in  the  kitchen  stove.  He 

229 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


had  no  idea  how  poor  they  were,  because  as  far 
as  Mrs.  Berman  was  concerned  she  always  had 
what  he  prescribed  for  her.  The  young  man 
did  not  know  of  the  Sabbath  clothes  that  were 
pawned  and  of  the  new  fast  days  Reb  Berman 
had  discovered.  He  had  refused  to  take  fee 
for  every  time  he  came,  but  once  or  twice  he 
had  accepted  a  dollar  bill  Solomon  Berman 
pressed  in  his  hand. 

He  thought  Reb  Berman's  heightened  pal 
lor  was  due  only  to  worry  and  the  physician 
exercised  everything  he  knew,  and  even  more, 
to  get  the  sick  woman  on  her  feet.  It  took  a 
long  time;  it  took  the  whole  winter  to  get  the 
woman  out  of  bed  and  danger.  But  the 
young  physician  was  happy  to  have  saved  the 
woman's  life. 

Meanwhile  Reb  Berman's  earning  capacity 
had  fallen  to  zero. 

At  first  the  parents  of  the  pupils  knew  noth 
ing  of  the  daily  dismissal  by  Reb  Berman. 
When  they  finally  noticed  that  the  children 
were  not  forging  ahead,  they  decided  that  the 

230 


THE  PROFESSOR 


teacher  had  become  slack  in  his  methods.  Thus 
the  offspring  of  Orchard  Street  was  sent  to 
some  other  tutor,  and  Orchard  Street  always 
acts  as  a  unit. 

When  the  news  had  finally  gone  out  about 
the  teacher's  wife's  sickness,  Mrs.  Goldman 
was  very  sorry  and  Mrs.  Schwartz  sighed 
deeply,  but  Jewish  children  had  to  be  taught 
Hebrew  under  all  circumstances.  It  was  the 
sacred  duty  of  parents 

True,  his  wife  was  getting  better,  but  Solo 
mon  Berman  began  to  question  himself  whether 
he  was  doing  all  in  his  power  for  her! 

That  doctor  who  came  daily,  fee  or  no  fee, 
to  visit  the  sick  one,  was  he  really  a  good  doc 
tor?  Was  he  not  a  little  like  Reb  Solomon 
Berman  himself?  was  it  not  possible  that  the 
physician  knew  as  much  about  medicine  as  he, 
Reb  Berman,  knew  Hebrew?  just  enough  for 
the  children  of  the  poor?  If  he  were  a  good 
physician  would  he  not  be  in  great  demand, 
charge  a  big  fee  and  have  no  time  to  come  daily 
and  help  tidy  up  the  room  and  build  the  fire? 

231 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


The  old  man's  imagination  was  sharpened  by 
hunger  and  worry.  When  his  wife  was  finally 
permitted  to  leave  the  bed  he  drew  a  deep 
breath. 

The  doctor,  who  had  meanwhile  scented  the 
terrible  poverty,  dared  not  offend  the  Rabbi 
by  offering  help.  But  when  Mrs.  Berman  was 
convalescing,  he  called  the  husband  aside  and 
said  to  him:  "She  is  all  right  now.  All  she 
needs  is  proper  care,  strengthening  food.  I 
know  you  can't  give  it  to  her.  Here  is  twenty 
dollars.  I  want  you  to  spend  the  money  only 
for  her,  and  may  God  help  you."  The  doctor 
was  so  afraid  of  a  refusal  he  hurried  out  of  the 
room  ere  the  old  man  had  had  time  to  think 
or  speak. 

About  a  week  later  the  physician  went  to 
see  his  patient  again.  He  found  her  in  a  ter 
rible  condition  of  weakness  due  especially  to 
lack  of  proper  nourishment. 

"Man,  what  did  you  do  with  the  money?" 

"With  that  money,  doctor,  I  called  a  bigger 
doctor,  a  Professor,  a  gentile,  from  uptown." 

232 


THE  PURE  MOTIVE 

DOWN  the  East  Side  when  one  says 
"meet  me  at  Grienberg's,"  he  does  not 
have  to  give  street  and  number.  To  a  certain 
class  of  people  the  place  is  as  well  known  as 
the  Waldorf  or  the  St.  Regis  is  to  the  rest  of 
the  population.  Grienberg's  food  and  wine 
needs  no  praise.  Should  one  dare  doubt  the 
quality  of  the  victuals  the  proprietor  points 
out  a  few  old  men  sitting  at  a  corner  table 
and  remarks:  "These  men  have  eaten  the  same 
kind  of  food  here  for  the  last  thirty  years; 
and  they  are  still  alive." 

But  good  food  and  good  wine  is  not  the  only 
attraction  of  the  place.  Its  main  feature  is 
that  the  brains  and  the  heart  of  the  East  Side 
has  formed  a  year-long  habit  to  congregate 
there.  The  philosophies  and  the  religions  of 
the  world  are  dissected  nightly  at  a  dozen 

233 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


tables.  Between  two  sips  of  tea  the  literature 
of  a  century  is  ruled  out  of  existence,  or  some 
tenth-rate  poet  is  crowned  as  the  world's  un 
equalled  singer.  Editors  of  dailies  discuss 
yesterday's  editorial  with  their  political  antag 
onists  and  give  their  verbal  verdicts  to  story 
Writers  about  a  manuscript  read  between  the 
soup  and  the  dessert.  The  very  latest  in  the 
world's  politics  is  pressed  through  the  finest  of 
sieves  at  every  table.  In  such  discussion  the 
office  boy  of  the  newspaper,  Joe,  the  waiter, 
and  the  owner  of  the  place  have  equal  rights 
with  the  editors  and  philosophers. 

Meanwhile  the  musicians  play  Roumanian 
melodies,  the  latest  vaudeville  successes, 
snatches  from  operas,  or  some  composer  tries 
on  the  piano  his  latest  melody  while  the  poet, 
to  whose  words  the  music  was  set,  leans  on  his 
elbow  and  listens  attentively.  The  verdict  is 
given  on  the  spot  and  if  it  is  liked,  Katz,  the 
music  publisher,  sends  the  manuscript  to  the 
printer  the  following  day. 

In  such  an  atmosphere  lived  for  the  last  ten 
234 


THE  PURE  MOTIVE 


years  Joseph  Horn.  Up  to  five  years  ago  he 
was  the  editor  of  a  Yiddish  radical  weekly. 
His  word  was  feared  by  every  one.  He 
smashed  to  pieces  the  pretentions  of  many  a 
young  writer.  Many  a  play  was  taken  off  the 
boards  of  the  East  Side  theaters  because  Horn 
happened  not  to  like  it.  He  attacked  the 
strongest  reputations  and  became  strong  him 
self  by  taking  sides  with  the  weak.  But  sud 
denly  something  terrible  happened.  He  be 
came  blind.  Superstitious  people  said  it  was 
God's  punishment.  His  fiancee,  a  beautiful 
young  Russian  girl,  took  care  of  him  during 
the  first  days.  For  a  while  he  dictated  to  her 
his  articles.  But  the  fighting  editorials  of  yore 
grew  milder  from  week  to  week.  He  began  to 
compromise.  Began  to  see  "honest  differences 
of  opinions,"  where  he  formerly  saw  only  cor 
ruption  and  crookedness.  He  no  longer  at 
tacked  the  strong.  He  ridiculed  the  weak.  So 
he  lost  his  job.  The  radical  group  owning  the 
paper  had  no  scruples  about  Horn's  future; 
they  had  principles  to  defend  and  maintain 

235 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


which  stood  higher  than  the  mere  well-being  of 
a  lonely  blind  man.  Horn,  too,  rose  to  the  oc 
casion  and  broke  off  the  engagement  with  the 
girl.  He  was  not  going  to  keep  her  to  share 
his  misfortune.  For  a  while  he  tried  to  write, 
to  contribute  to  radical  papers.  But  having 
lost  the  fighting  quality,  his  articles  were  of  no 
value  at  all. 

He  took  a  room  not  far  from  the  cafe  and 
came  there  early  every  day  and  left  when  the 
last  guest  had  left.  A  brother  of  his,  a  street 
car  conductor,  who  now  supported  him,  usually 
brought  him  there  and  took  him  home.  The 
psychological  change  in  favor  of  the  strong 
was  so  complete  that  one  was  almost  sure 
which  side  Horn  would  take  in  a  controversy. 
He  was  always  with  the  strong.  All  the  fight- 
Ing  ability  he  had  once  possessed  became  trans 
muted  into  a  faculty  for  intrigues.  Like  a  bee 
flying  from  one  flower  to  another,  Horn 
hopped  from  one  table  to  the  other,  cross 
polinating  what  one  man  told  and  the  other 
answered.  He  became  a  nuisance  and  was  dis- 

236 


THE  PURE  MOTIVE 


liked  by  everybody.  Yet  no  one  dared  say 
anything  or  lift  his  voice  in  anger.  Since  he 
had  lost  his  sight  his  hearing  had  sharpened 
considerably.  He  could  keep  track  of  three  or 
four  conversations  going  on  at  the  opposite  end 
of  the  room  from  where  he  sat,  seemingly  en 
gaged  in  conversation  with  the  cat  under  the 
table.  To  the  guests  he  criticized  the  quality 
of  the  food,  to  the  editors  the  news  writers. 
Five  minutes  later  he  urged  the  same  writers 
to  ask  an  increase  in  salary  because  the  editor 
said  they  were  indispensable.  From  his  brains 
like  from  the  body  of  a  spider  emanated  daily 
a  webb  of  intrigues  which  enveloped  every  one 
the  moment  he  entered  the  place.  And  every 
body  cursed  fate  that  the  man  was  blind. 

Then  one  day  a  rich  uncle  of  Feldman,  the 
vers  libre  poet,  died  and  left  to  the  nephew 
a  considerable  fortune:  five  thousand  dollars. 
A  hundred  friends  counseled  Feldman  how  to 
spend  his  money  usefully.  Some  urged  a  new 
paper,  others  a  new  cafe.  Old  friends  urged 
him  to  become  their  publisher  and  some  public 

237 


DUST  OF  NEW  YORK 


men  wanted  him  to  donate  at  least  part  of  it 
to  charity.  Horn  arrogated  to  himself  the 
right  to  counsel  the  poet  because  Feldman  had 
married  his  former  fiancee.  Horn  was  con 
tinually  at  Feldman's  elbows.  Whatever 
proposition  was  brought  to  the  poet  Horn  ridi 
culed  or  explained  away. 

One  day  Feldman  gave  a  banquet  to  all  his 
friends.  Among  them  were  a  few  physicians, 
and  one  of  them  was  an  eye  specialist.  This 
man  had  once  expressed  an  opinion  that  Horn's 
eyesight  could  be  restored  through  an  opera 
tion.  When  the  gathering  was  at  its  merriest 
Feldman  got  up  and  pledged  two  thousand 
dollars  to  the  physician  who  would  restore  to 
Horn  his  eyesight.  The  eye  specialist  accepted 
and  named  a  great  surgeon  who  would  operate 
for  the  price.  Every  one  congratulated  the 
blind  man  and  wished  him  good  luck. 

I  knew  how  much  Feldman  had  always 
hated  Horn.  Horn  also  had  a  strong  aver 
sion  for  the  formerly  poor  poet.  After  the 
banquet  I  called  the  host  to  a  corner  of  the 

238 


THE  PURE  MOTIVE 


room  and  inquired  what  had  prompted  him  to 
such  a  charitable  act;  to  spend  half  of  his  for 
tune  on  that  scoundrel!" 

"Why,  haven't  you  guessed?  Man  alive, 
it's  now  five  years  that  I  am  burning  with  de 
sire  to  punch  Horn's  face  for  a  turn  he  has 
done  me.  But  he  was  blind  and  therefore  im 
mune.  I  shall  not  be  able  to  sleep  until  the 
operation  is  over.  And  if  God  is  good  to  me 
I  will  wait  for  Horn  at  the  door  the  first  day 
he  comes  out  from  the  hospital  and  punch  him 
black  and  blue.  You  understand?  I  want  to 
have  the  first  privilege." 


289 


YB  59414 


GENERM. 


85710s 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


